


Life as a House

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Architect Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, California, Caretaker Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Claire is Lisa's daughter, Construction Worker Dean Winchester, Dean/Castiel - Freeform, Divorced DeanCas, Explicit m/m sexual content, Garth is a good egg, Getting Back Together, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, Literal building of a house, M/M, Marijuana, Medical issues, Minor Castiel/Meg Masters, Miscommunication, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Oceanside setting, Painter Castiel (Supernatural), Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Pierced Jack Kline, Prescription pain medication, Punk Jack, Sick Dean, Tattooed Jack Kline, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, Troubled Jack Kline, Very minor hints at Dom!Cas, dadstiel, major character illness, threatened (not actual) MCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Dean Winchester is staring down the barrel of forty years with nothing to show for it. Nothing, save for a house that’s falling apart around him and a tumultuous, strained relationship with both his teenage son Jack and his estranged husband Castiel. In the face of earth-shattering, painful news, he decides to go for broke attempting to rebuild all three from the ground up before it’s too late.“Life as a House” follows Dean’s determined journey to tear down his old life and literally build a new one by finally following through on twenty-year-old plans to construct the house he once designed for him and Cas to live happily ever after in. But before he can do that he’ll have to tear down not only the house his father left him but all the walls he’s built up over the years to keep the people he cares about at arm’s length. Will his efforts be enough to repair his relationships and put to right all of the mistakes he’s made before his time is up?A poignant, emotional love story set against the backdrop of Southern California and the Pacific Ocean about hope, heartbreak, regret, taking chances, and how it’s never too late to start all over again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a huge labor of love for me. I watched the movie 20+ times to get things right and I truly hope it shows. I highly recommend watching the movie when you're done if you get a chance, it's beautiful and spectacular but does not have a happy ending for "Dean" (this does!). While I usually write heavy on Cas-content, this fic is really a love letter to Dean and what he truly deserves. I hope that you enjoy.
> 
> A huge thank you to the SPNMBB Directors, who were wonderful and encouraging every step of the way, making my first bang super welcoming and fun, especially [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses), who listened to me complain endlessly and also beta'd this thing within an inch of its life. 
> 
> Another huge thanks to Jen aka [CoinofStone](https://twitter.com/coinofstone), my unwilling amazing editor who turns my vague ideas for fics into actual reality, provides endless support and motivation, and without whom I would probably have quit writing by now. 
> 
> And last but definitely not least, we bow down and worship at the altar of [FoxyMoley](https://foxymoley.tumblr.com/), the most wonderful artist I could have ever dreamed of having. Seriously, Foxy stepped in at the last minute to pinch hit, and she knocked it completely out of the park. These scenes are straight out of my head and made me cry more than once. LOVE YOU FOXY!!!! She also illustrated another fic for this bang AND wrote her own. Both are posted, so go check them out and give her lots of love: [FoxyMoley (AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxymoley)
> 
> The art is embedded, but here is a link to Foxy's [Art Masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019536) on AO3, please show it some love!!
> 
> Let's see, what else?! Oh, a random note that Claire is Lisa's daughter and Ben doesn't exist, for reasons. 
> 
> Also, here is a link to the "Life As a House" soundtrack, it's all instrumental and I *highly* recommend it for listening along. It's not too difficult to figure out which songs go where, but “A Leap”, “Tear it Down”, and “Leap of Faith” are probably the most significant songs. I love this soundtrack; it's a real mood for the movie and it's beautiful. I can only hope that I captured the amazing feels in written word. [Link to Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfv9f42Sjkw&list=PLRwAfGF7Py14kXOpoPZPAT8VPtsZB6ZlE&index=1)
> 
> Without further ado, FoxyMoley & I very proudly present to you... Life As a House:  
> [](https://ibb.co/nzt0wDH)

[ ](https://ibb.co/TRyNwQr)

Palos Verdes Drive S in Rancho Palos Verdes, California, has a turn-off as you roll south that leads into what most anyone would describe as an attractive, upper-middle-class residential community. Dean Winchester’s lucky to be able to afford a place on this street, even luckier to have scored the prime lot at the tip of the cul-de-sac, a piece of real estate most people will never even dream of owning. The houses surrounding Dean’s lot are modest but well-kept. This isn’t a street for elaborate estates or mansions; there are no sprawling driveways or multi-winged architectural installments, just typical southern California homes. Perhaps a bit too large, perhaps a touch showy, but overall, nothing incredibly special. The defining feature of Dean’s neighborhood is supposed to be how nothing stands out. Instead, it all flows together harmoniously, making living on the street an experience that carries from home to front yard, to spectacular views of the cliffs and the Pacific beyond. Big windows, decorative trim, well-manicured lawns, and perfectly pruned plants. Everything looks as clean and flawless as it undoubtedly had the day it was finished being built.

Dean’s never been one for fitting in.

His house is a dump. No, that’s not self-deprecating modesty; some of the walls may actually be on the verge of coming down. That fact (and the fact that it had previously belonged to his father) is what allowed Dean to be able to keep his home in the first place. The mortgage and taxes were driven down despite the stunning location due solely to the fact that the “home” wasn’t much more than a rundown heap of boards held together mostly by dirt and salt from the ocean air. And _that_ was just shy of fifteen years ago. These days, Dean’s pretty sure the only thing holding his house up is hope.

And hope is something Dean plumb ran out of ages ago. This house, this entire life - it was supposed to be shared. The visions that danced in Dean’s head included _people_ , they included Cas. Him and Cas, roughhousing on a shag rug they’d put in front of the giant fireplace Cas would insist upon. It’d be cliché as hell, but Dean wouldn’t complain when Cas was face down on top of it. The hardwood floors where they’d dance, where he’d whirl Cas around and dip and twirl him, because despite his protests otherwise, Dean secretly loved to dance, but only with Cas in his arms. The floating step stairs with iron rails that would catch hastily flung shirts and undergarments the two of them were too preoccupied to pick up as they raced for the bedroom. The giant master that would be their sanctuary, their home base. The place they’d make love and rest and argue and make up and always feel safe in. The kitchen where Dean would cook Cas’ favorite meals, where eventually sticky hands would smear peanut butter on cabinets and a dog would track dirt on the floor. _Their_ home. And all of it overlooking the vast, peaceful certainty of the Pacific Ocean with the waves crashing against the cliffs below, a view that would be the background for every important milestone from their first night as husbands until the very end of their days.

Until it wasn’t. Until Castiel had decided one of their fights would be their last fight, packed his bags and left with their son, leaving Dean alone with a shattered heart and equally shattered dreams.

Yea, once upon a time, Dean had big plans for this house, or this lot, anyway. Being an almost-architect with a construction worker for a dad, he’d always assumed he’d eventually build his own home, and he’d always looked forward to it. There was a time that Dean could see it all, watch every stage of the process play across his mind as if it were a movie. First, he and Cas would tear down the dumpy old shack taking up the majority of space on the lot. They’d move into the garage, which was a legally rentable unit, though the toilet wasn’t exactly concealed and the shower was outside. They’d deal though because it was only temporary, and it’d make a great story to tell their kids someday. Then they’d start on the actual house _—_ a big, open-concept, glass-walled masterpiece, built proudly by their own hands. Piece by piece, part by part, they’d build their home together. It wouldn’t be easy of course, but it would be something they’d push through and be endlessly proud of when they finished. He never guessed, not in a _million_ years, that he’d end up exactly like his dad. All alone in the same exact dump of a house, abandoned by the people they loved because they couldn’t get it together. Two generations of failure belonged to this house, thanks to Dean. But he remembers when he believed he’d have something different.

Dean used to be able to see it all so clearly, even for years after Castiel left. The two of them, working side-by-side, the bare-bones frame of the house freshly raised. The gentle summer wind would be at his back, blowing Castiel’s dark hair off of his forehead as they crouched atop the wooden framework of the unfinished second floor. Cas looking up from his hammering to see Dean smiling at him and smiling back, his tanned skin setting off his bright blue eyes that perfectly mirror the color of the Pacific framing him in the background. They’d crinkle at the edges as his smile would widen, showing off his perfect teeth and just a bit of gum. Dean had fallen in love with Castiel’s smile the first time he’d seen it, his serious nature making its appearance a rarity, and he was still weak for it to this day.

The architectural plans for their forever home still hang on the wall of Dean’s pitifully small and crowded home office to this day, but the dream of making that house a reality died with Castiel’s departure all those years ago. These days, Dean finds it hard to care where he sleeps, eats, and shits. The view is nice, and he takes it in any chance he gets. To his neighbor’s dismay, that includes his morning piss. He’ll roll out of bed and wander right out the side door, standing at the property’s edge in only his boxers, emptying his bladder right over the side of the cliff.

Dean still isn’t interested in fitting in.

What he is interested in though, is his son, and the reason Castiel had left to begin with. It had been unexpected, that Jack came into their lives in the way he did, but not unwelcome. Castiel’s estranged brother and his wife had died suddenly in a freak accident and for some reason, they’d named Castiel and Dean as guardians for their only son, Jack. A heads up would have been nice, but it’s not like there was anyone around to yell at by the time they found out. And so, via a judge’s decree, Dean and Castiel became the brand-spanking, newly minted parents of a two-year-old. They’d only moved into the crappy little cottage at the end of the road less than a year prior, an opportunity that arose after Dean’s dad had died suddenly and left it to him in his will. Dean had been in no rush to get the construction show on the road, and that probably had a lot more to do with his tainted memories of his father than he cared to admit. And anyway, sure the house was run down and cramped, but he and Castiel had been newlyweds. Neither of them much cared where they lived or what it looked like, as long as they were together. And as far as Dean was concerned, the new house and his plans for it were far less interesting than spending his weekends with his fingers intertwined in Cas’ and pinned above his head. He still relishes the memories of staring down at his sweet husband’s sleepy smile below him as their bodies moved together slowly, sensuously _—_ and most importantly _—_ on repeat, until the day turned to night and back again.

But all that changed when Jack came home _—Castiel_ changed. He became anxious, uptight, constantly complaining about the state of the house and “what kind of environment is this to raise a _child_ in, Dean?” And it’s not that Dean didn’t care, but at some point, Castiel’s constant bitching started to really dig at him, and perhaps that’s when he intentionally began putting the project off. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to test his strong-willed husband, to push him to the edge the way that he’d done, and Dean wasn’t unaware of that, even at the time. He just never thought that Cas would actually leave. If he could go back in time, knowing what he knows now, he’d like to think he’d stow his pride and his ego and never instigate the battle of wills that would end with him being left alone and Castiel raising their son with someone else. Sure, Dean sees Jack _,_ every other weekend and alternating holidays, but he’s missed out on so much, been replaced and colored over in so many things that he barely feels a part of his life anymore. That’s certainly the way Castiel prefers it if his cool demeanor when he picks Jack up and drops him off is any indication.

Because Castiel did leave. After a particularly loud and nasty argument wherein Dean suggested that if Cas was _too good_ for the house they’d made into a home maybe that’s what he should do, he packed his and Jack’s things, turned tail and never looked back. And Dean had missed his window there, as well. Because surely there had been one. He could have _shown_ Castiel that he was sorry, that he cared about his feelings and his concerns, but he didn’t. He let his overinflated, bullshit masculine pride get in the way of the best thing he’d ever had. He’d flat out ignored the fact that Castiel had left at all, going about his routine as if he was _sure_ Cas would eventually change his mind. Night after night of continuing to sleep in their once-shared bed, drifting off to the lullaby of waves crashing on rocks, a sound Castiel used to murmur his love for into Dean’s ear as they lay curled naked together against exposed boards and under open windows.

Castiel didn’t change his mind. He didn’t come home. Days turned to weeks turned to months turned to years, and Dean lost all faith in anything at all. When he finally opened his eyes and realized what he’d done, it was far too late.

That had become crystal clear when Castiel picked up Jack from Dean’s house one average Sunday with a request; to switch their custodial weekends the following June.

“For what?” Dean had been petulant, bitter about how little time he had with the child who was supposed to be his son, and unwilling to entertain Castiel’s requests without a good (in _his_ eyes) reason.  

Castiel’s eyes had darkened and for a moment, he looked regretful. Dean had wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms, to push fingers through his hair, to kiss him silly, drag him inside and shove him down on the bed. To _love_ him. To tell him he still loved him, that he never, ever stopped. But the moment passed, and Castiel had schooled his face into the familiar, squinty-eyed skepticism Dean had come to know so well. Jack had smashed something inside the house then, and Dean had raised his eyebrows, an expression that Castiel had always known was code for, _get on with it._

“I’m getting re-married,” he’d finally admitted. “To Meg.”

“ _Meg?!”_ Dean had been instantly out of line and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Meg, your drug dealer from college? Are you fucking kidding me? Why didn’t you just grab a mail order wife from Skanks-R-Us? She’s a fucking demon, Cas, I don’t want her around Jack.”

Castiel had become furious then, storming past Dean into the house and grabbing an almost eight-year-old Jack by the wrist. “Nobody asked your opinion, _Dean._ It’s none of your business, none at all. And for your information, Meg and I have been dating for two years this month.” His expression is a bit defiant when he drops that bomb, and he stares Dean down, willing him to say something.

Dean had just stood there, slack-jawed, doing the math in his head. Two years would mean… Castiel had started dating only six months or so after he’d left Dean. _Well good for fucking him,_ Dean had thought angrily.

“Fuck you, Cas,” he’d said softly. “I’m glad it was so easy for you to move on from me.”

When he slammed the storm door in Castiel’s face, it teetered and fell off the hinges. What a fucking metaphor for his life.

***

_Eight years later..._

It’s been years since Dean’s even bothered to lock the door behind him as he heads off to work in the morning. He’s just sliding into the driver’s seat of his car when his neighbor from across the street comes flying out her front door and stomping across her lawn like her ratty bathrobe is on fire. “Dean! Dean Winchester, don’t you dare ignore me!”

Dean does ignore her, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway. But Lisa is on a mission this morning, her brown hair wild and unbrushed, swinging everywhere as she steps in front of Dean’s car, blocking his exit down the street.

Dean sighs and reluctantly rolls down his window. “Mornin’ Lis, something I can help you with?”

The frown lines on Lisa’s brow only deepen as she replies, “Does it give you some kind of perverse pleasure to expose your dick in front of my teenage daughter?” She’s gesturing emphatically to the second story of her home, where Dean knows from being on the inside that Claire’s window faces the street, and the ocean, and therefore his home in between. He’s momentarily confused before remembering that he regularly empties his bladder behind his house, and it clicks that Claire must be able to see straight over his little dump to watch him do so. He laughs as he squints between Lisa’s house and the garage, trying to gauge what she could possibly have seen from that distance, besides maybe his naked back and some underwear. Claire’s a good kid, always seemed to have a bit of a crush on him when he and Lisa had been dating. Teens will be teens, he supposes. He’s glad he doesn’t have a daughter.

He turns back to Lisa with a smile on his face. “Exactly how far out that window did you have to lean to be able to see my dick, Lis? If you missed me, you could have just said so.”

Lisa makes a face. “I’d appreciate in the future if you wouldn’t, Dean. That’s all.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s private property.”

Lisa shifts, and when she speaks her voice is far more confident than her demeanor betrays. “Well, you- you’ll just have to explain that to the police.”

Dean stares at her intently for a moment, but he doesn’t get angry. “Pity,” he replies. “You were the one neighbor I could stand.”

***

Dean’s car is his pride and joy, the one thing in his life that remains constant, that never lets him down or threatens to leave. Dean’s Baby doesn’t care what his house looks like, or that he never finished architectural school, or that he’s a lonely, almost forty-year-old loser. Sure, she doesn’t keep him warm at night, but she does give him something to care for and she gets him from here to there in style. Baby helps keep him sane. Dean parks her at the far end of the dedicated employee lot for DMC Design & Construction and heads inside. It’s the same space, the same foyer, the same stairs leading up to the same workspace that he’s been coming to almost daily for twenty-plus years, and it’s impossible to get excited about.

When he and Cas had first gotten married, Dean had been in school to become an architect. He’d seen the job for a model builder posted outside of one of his classrooms and applied thinking it would give him valuable experience and good references. He’d enjoyed the work well enough at the time, though it was never what he dreamed of doing permanently. After Cas had walked out though, the idea of completing school slowly lost its luster, and Dean had ended up quitting during his final semester. He was only a handful of credits shy of graduating, but his desire to become an architect had seemingly disintegrated alongside the rest of his hopes and dreams.

He kept the job, though. It was easy enough work and decent money, building scale models based on the plans drawn up by the firm's _real_ architects. And while the architects themselves were elitist and condescending towards him, the job was mindless. And mindless was what Dean needed - he didn’t want to think about the ways his life had fallen apart. He just wanted to zone out and work, and the job demanded exactly that. Measure, cut, glue. Paint, trim, pour, seal. Model after model, day after day, month after month, year after year. Over the course of his tenure at DMC Dean must have completed hundreds of models, all of which now decorated the hallways and various conference rooms of the building as a valuable, yet tasteful organic advertisement to potential clients. There was a time when Dean might even have been thought of as one of the firm’s most valuable assets, but those days are long gone. Building models by hand is a thing of the past, an outdated method replaced by computers that allow visuals to be constructed better, faster, and for the architect to change anything instantly, something a physical model simply can’t offer. But Dean steadily refused to switch his methods despite ongoing pressure from his superiors. He always declined the company-financed training and classes and took the criticism on his performance reviews regarding the issue without contention. It’s not that Dean even particularly _likes_ his job, but if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that he’s got less than zero interest in learning a new way to do something he doesn’t even particularly want to do as it is.  

As he ascends the familiar staircase leading from the lobby into the beating heart of the firm that is the main work area, he _almost_ turns around. Almost walks right back down the stairs and across the parking lot to jump into Baby and speed away from here forever. He’s started to get this way once or twice a week lately, though he couldn’t say why. Despite that, in the end, he swallows the impulse, shoving it down and forcing himself to move forward to his desk like he always does. _Always forward, can’t go back._

On the way there he passes his boss’ secretary, Becky, hurrying down the walkway between the conference rooms and the mess of workspaces in the center of the massive, two-story open room. She’s laden down with an armful of rolled up plans and doing her best to balance an open coffee in one of her hands. “Oh, Dean,” Becky calls, pausing and rearranging her precarious burden when she sees him. “Mr. Crowley would like to see you upstairs.”

Dean nods, waving Becky off with a “Sure thing,” as he dumps his shoulder bag next to the ergonomic chair sitting at his workspace. He pauses over the model he’s currently working on, a four-bedroom home with a porch Dean’s particularly proud of and a real acrylic-poured pool in the tiny backyard. The lawn is only half-completed but Dean has plans to wrap it up first thing this morning and be ready to move onto the new project Crowley had been talking about since last Friday. It’s a designer space for one of their repeat customers, a slick representative from Roman Enterprises that Dean could really live with never having to see again. He sets about mentally cataloging his day as he climbs the stairs to the third floor and wanders down the hallway where the executive offices are. He looks down over the open balcony walkway at his desk and notes distractedly that his current model’s shingles aren’t quite perfect. He’ll fix that too, before handing it in. He’s relatively sure that the presentation it’s needed for isn’t until this afternoon. Doesn’t really matter. Someone will inevitably tell him if he’s wrong.

Dean passes model after model as he moves down the hallway, all turned into decor and most of them his. Just outside Crowley’s office, Dean pauses in front of one of his favorites; a simple two-story, open-concept interior with exterior wooden accents and plush landscaping. It’s modern, yet cozy and familiar, somewhere Dean thinks he’d enjoy living. He picks a chewed piece of gum off of the front walkway and discards it in the nearby trash.

“Is this a good time?” Dean peeks his head inside Crowley’s office as he raps on the doorframe.

Crowley looks up from his paperwork, stands and gestures for Dean to have a seat. “Dean! Come in, yes of course, always a good time for you,” he says in his disarming British accent, distractedly returning to clicking away at his computer. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Becky bustles right in without knocking, apologizing left and right and dropping a stack of papers in front of Crowley. Dean sits back in his chair, dropping his hands to his lap without comment. “So what’s this, then? Oh, goody. Something else to sign… Eh, henceforth and forthwith... for the furtherance and expedience and regulation and... yea, sure.” He signs with a flourish and Becky flounces away with her prize. Crowley rolls his eyes. “Apologies,” he says superficially, hand extended in a gesture that’s not-quite offering anything. “Business, am I right?”

Dean raises his eyebrows and nods agreeably, turning his hands palm-up like, _what can you do?_ But inside, he’s gritting his teeth. Crowley’s rubbed him the wrong way since the day Dean met him, the kind of guy who’s always greasing wheels instead of worrying about who’s on the train. Deals, bargains, tit-for-tat, that’s Crowley’s forte, his niche, and judging from the executive suite he’s sitting in, the whole schtick is working for him. But it’s not for Dean, and so he does his best to steer clear of the man unless directly summoned, like now.  
  
“What can I do for you, Crowley?”

Instead of answering, Crowley fidgets, leaning back in his chair and opening the drawer at the bottom of his desk. He pulls out a bottle of expensive whiskey and two glasses, offering one to Dean who politely declines with a wave of his hand. _It’s nine-fucking-thirty in the morning,_ he thinks, marveling that when _he’s_ judging someone for day drinking, that person should probably evaluate their _entire_ life. Crowley doesn’t seem bothered, just pours himself a generous finger and tucks the rest away again.

He takes a long sip before speaking, and when he does his tone is overly familiar and as such, completely out of place. He and Crowley aren’t _friends_. “How’s that husband of yours, Dean?”

Dean blinks and minces no words. “Uhm, well, when we divorced a decade ago, he was very, very angry. Now he’s just hostile.”

Crowley doesn’t miss a beat, sitting forward and sizing Dean up as a way of subject change. “What are you _on,_ Dean? How much weight have you lost?”

“What? Oh, five, ten pounds. Haven’t been very hungry lately.” In truth, Dean’s not been feeling the greatest. Stomach aches, a lingering cough that he just can’t seem to shake no matter how much Robitussin he downs. And this morning, a weird sense that his lungs weren’t getting quite enough air, even as he slowed and purposefully deepened his breathing. At his age, he knows he should probably get to a doctor sooner rather than later but like everything else in his life, Dean’s nagging feeling of being ‘ _off’_ isn’t accompanied by any urgency, because none of it really matters anyway. Dean’s life is grey, and whatever happens in it, that’s grey too.

“Hmm.”

Dean fidgets with his tie. He hates it wearing it, hates everything it represents. “I did tell you that I would be ready to start the new Roman Enterprises model today?”

Crowley sighs and finally sits forward, setting his glass aside and planting his feet on the floor. “Okay, Dean, this is not me. I like you, you know that. But listen, we can show clients endless options. We can change anything in a matter of hours. But you, you won’t change.”

Dean blinks, wholly unprepared for the turn their conversation has taken. “I’ve… I’ve been here for twenty years.”

“Maybe that’s too long,” Crowley replies, fake empathy oozing from every pore.

“Maybe.”

“It’s too long. Listen, they decided on a week a year severance, but I got them up to twenty-six. You can learn all of the computer stuff you need to long before that, maybe even find a job closer to home.”

Dean just sits and stares, Crowley’s words failing to register. This place is all he’s known for two decades. Two decades, every weekday and more weekends than he cares to remember, 8 hours or more looking at the same walls, the same faces, the same ugly carpeting. He surprises even himself when he blurts out, “I hate this job.”

“Dean,” Crowley patronizes. “What do you mean? You love this job.”

“Nope,” Dean continues, shaking his head. “From the day I started to today. Can’t stand it."

Crowley raises his eyebrows, smiles, and the smarmy stretch of his lips makes Dean want to smack him across the face. He refrains. “Well, good,” Crowley’s saying when Dean tunes back in. “Then it sounds like I’m doing you a favor. You know what? I feel better about this.”

“Uh, yea,” Dean replies. “I was hoping you would.” They sit and stare at each other for an awkward moment before Dean lifts his hands in that same, _what can you do_ bullshit gesture from the beginning of the meeting. He feels like a complete idiot, getting let go of a position he’s held for the better part of his life for being _too ancient, too useless_ by a guy his same age. Briefly, he wonders if he should have been more like Crowley all along. Smooth, slick, motivated. Maybe then he’d still have a job. Maybe then Cas would have stayed.

 _Fucking Cas_.

 _And fuck leaving here empty-handed,_ Dean thinks, as he starts to walk away, turning back to Crowley who instantly adopts a look of pure disappointment that this conversation is about to continue. 

“Can I ask you one favor?” Dean looks around, through the iron-mesh walls of Crowley’s office where his entire life’s work, all he has to show for the last twenty years, is proudly on display.

“What can I do for you?” Crowley’s tone is accommodating, but his face clearly says, _stop wasting my time._

“You know I _…_ I built my first model here, back when I was still in school. There must be hundreds of them laying around the office. I was wondering if I might, you know, pick a few to take home. Just the ones that really mean something.” Dean looks up hopefully, but Crowley hesitates.

He clears his throat before speaking and rises from his chair. “Well, ah, those _—_ I mean, Dean, we can’t really keep our work. I could maybe ask them if you could choose one. They’re a part of the firm.”

Dean sinks slowly back into the chair he’d already vacated, staring blankly down at his shoes, one hand for some reason still in the farcical act of smoothing his tie. He nods slowly as Crowley continues.

“Listen, why don’t you go out there and look them over, every single one of them, OK? Pick the one you like the best, take it with you. Now, run it by me first, just in case. I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

Dean raises his eyes from where they’re stuck on the floor, meeting Crowley’s pretentious, arrogant ones with defiance and surety this time. He rises from his chair and makes his way back to his own workspace without another word. Every model he passes catches his eye in the periphery, but he can’t bring himself to look at them, can’t bring himself to face what he’s leaving behind, what he’s leaving _without._ _It’s happening all over again._ _All these years, down the drain._ He reaches his desk and sinks into the chair like a stone. For a few moments, he just sits there, swinging back and forth, back and forth, staring absently at the unfinished model waiting there for him to return as if nothing had happened. _I’ll never finish this,_ he thinks, and the thought doesn’t sting at all. In fact, the idea that he’ll leave one less piece of himself, no matter how tiny to this godforsaken place is satisfying.

There’s a set of stacked boxes in lieu of shelving at the far corner of Dean’s desk, and something inside one of the slots catches his eye. He gets up and withdraws a long roll of design paper, pulling the residual off to reveal the heavy, plastic rod underneath. Still holding the rod, he shoulders his bag and shoves the picture of him and Cas he’d never bothered to take off of his desk deep inside. He hesitates then, but only for a moment. He can see several pairs of eyes watching him, darting away when he looks in their direction. _Cowards._ Maybe that’s the tipping point, or maybe Dean had decided to do this the moment he’d left Crowley’s office.

He raises the rod and brings it down hard on his newest model, the foam crumpling under the brutal attack, pieces of lawn and plastic and wood and paint flying in all directions.

_It feels good._

And maybe Dean is surprised by that a little, because not much has felt _good_ to him, not in a very long time. And so he doesn’t stop. Swinging and bashing and destroying, lift swing, fall, motions on repeat. He makes his way around the office and tackles each model he comes to as methodically and effectively as he built them, giving each one the same time and attention in its destruction as he did its creation. His co-workers, for their part, overreact wildly; scattering and screaming as if Dean’s firing off a gun. Dean ignores them completely, finishing the first floor and ascending to the second. Model after model, he takes them all out.

“Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester! Dean!” Becky follows him frantically, apparently the one who drew the short straw in confronting him, if her shrinking into each nearby doorway for cover is any indication.

“Hmm?” Dean responds distractedly between swings at a big corporate structure he’d built six years ago, the one that helped them land Roman Enterprises as a client, to begin with. _Fuck all of them,_ Dean thinks, but he’s not angry. In fact, aside from the property destruction, he’s incredibly cool and calm.

“Mr. Crowley would like to see you,” Becky squeaks.

“Fine,” Dean replies, not paying her any mind.

“In his office when you’re able,” Becky adds, disappearing into a side room and slamming the door.

Dean’s aware of the entire firm’s eyes on him as he scoops up the model he’d stopped at earlier the cozy, familiar one that had the wad of gum masquerading as a rock. He’s gentle as he lifts it off of its stand and carries it with him.

When he walks into Crowley’s office, he sees that someone’s managed to salvage the second model he’d built earlier this month for this afternoon’s presentation. Crowley’s desperately trying to stash it, but Dean strides up confidently and blocks his way.

“I’ll keep this one if that’s alright with you,” he says. “You’re a great architect and a miserable human being. That’s mine,” he spits, bringing the rod down squarely between Crowley’s hands, destroying the piece he’s holding completely in only two or three firm strokes.

“No, Dean, no _don’t_ , shit!” Crowley flinches as Dean brings the rod down over and over, turning his head to avoid getting flying debris in his face. His cheeks are bright red and his shoulders are heaving in anger as Dean finishes. “You’re not even a fucking architect and you’re a miserable human being,” he growls.

Dean pauses. “You’re right,” he says calmly. “You win.”

All eyes are still on him as he strides down the steps he’s taken every day for the last twenty years and out the front door, the only remaining sign he’d ever even been at DMC at all in his hands. No one tries to stop him. He’s feeling a mess of emotions as he moves across the pavement, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t notice that the tight feeling in his chest, the difficulty he’s having breathing, the pain under his sternum - none of that is from excitement. He’s almost to the end of the sidewalk when it all hits him at once, stopping him in his tracks. He sways on his feet, the beautiful model dropping from his hand and crashing to the concrete. Dean’s body follows shortly after, smashing it, ruining it, under his weight. He hears people calling his name, hears someone yell about “911,” and then his surroundings all starts to blur together.

The wrecked frame of the model underneath him presses into his back painfully. As his head lolls to the side, he sees all of the tiny trees he’d painstakingly built, painted and glued down strewn about next to his head. Someone’s shoe appears and crushes one of them. The pieces of the acrylic pool are everywhere.

***

Dean’s used to being ignored, to having his feelings disregarded and shoved off, so the aggravation he might have felt at the cold detachment of the doctor delivering his prognosis wasn’t as bothersome as it probably should have been. _Cas would have been bothered,_ he found himself thinking absently. _Cas would have had that doctor’s job, just for being rude to me. Once upon a time._ He snorts a little at the thought. Castiel used to be his knight in shining armor, his unnecessary, relentless protector; the kind of man who didn’t just speak but _showed_ his love at every turn. The emptiness of his bleak hospital room, the blank space where an emergency contact should go, the inescapable reality that he has _no one_ , least of all Castiel, hurts far worse than any cancer ever could.

He’s yanked abruptly from the pity party in his head by the overhead lights switching on and the privacy curtain being pulled back. A young, attractive blonde nurse’s aide appears at his bedside holding a tray of what appears to a tasting menu for infants. Dean wrinkles his nose.

“No thanks, sweetheart. Unless you got a burger hidden in your scrub jacket, we’re straight.” He tries to flash her his patented panty-dropper but he’s tired, and weaker than he thought. The morphine he’d been given less than a half hour ago is muddying his thoughts and making his hands feel as if they aren’t even attached to his body.

The pretty aide just drops her chin and looks down at him over her glasses, clearly projecting that Dean isn’t even the first patient tonight to think he’s funny and handsome enough to get away with this shit. She plops herself next to him on the bed and picks up a bowl of jello and a spoon.

 _At least jello’s supposed to look like that,_ Dean thinks and decides not to be difficult. The nurse is pretty, and he’s tired of being alone. He takes a bite.

Dean’s mouth is thick and clumsy right now, but he still tries to speak around the jello.

“What would you do if you only had three or four months to live?”

The aide looks briefly surprised but she doesn’t really react, just scoops up some more jello and holds it out for him. She seems thoughtful when she replies, “Eat a lot of red meat? I don’t know.” She giggles a little, and then asks, “What would you do?”

“Build a house,” Dean answers immediately.

“Oh, yea? What kind of house?” Another scoop of jello.

“Do you know what a Sears home is?”

“Those houses they sold through the catalog in like, the thirties?”

Dean nods. “Yea, that’s right. They came in a kit, all the pieces ready to be assembled, kind of like a jigsaw puzzle.” Dean fidgets with the thin blanket under his fingers, and accepts a mouthful of something that’s definitely not jello and might actually be carrots. Fortunately, the morphine’s dulled his taste buds, and he’s enjoying the aide’s company enough to let it slide. “I uh, I’ve got one like that. Pieces all ready to go. Permits and everything. Been waiting… well, let’s just say I’ve been waitin’ long enough.”

The aide is quiet for a moment, her light blue eyes full of compassionate concern, and for a brief moment, Dean can almost pretend Cas and his stupid blue eyes are there alongside him, that Cas is the one spooning disgusting food into his mouth and planning their next steps.

“No one’s really said four months is all you have though, have they?”

Dean shrugs. “Nobody’s really even pretended to offer treatment. So you tell me, when would you start eating red meat?” He softens the question with a half-smile, and the aide blushes. “Anyway.” He coughs. “They said I can try this targeted therapy thing. It’s new, experimental, some pill that you take at home. They didn’t seem to think it’d really matter though, so I don’t think I’m gonna take it. Probably just want my dead-man-walking data for their study. I’d rather build my house.”

“Can you build a house in four months?” She’s curious, and Dean knows that look well enough from his younger days. She likes him _—_ and in another time and place, perhaps he could have liked her too, maybe asked her out on a date and had a good time together, at least.

“I can die trying,” he shoots off instead and manages a full-blown grin this time.

The aide smiles in return and lifts a napkin to his face, blotting away a streak of food that’s stuck below the corner of his mouth. She’s kind, and she touches his face softly with the back of her hand after he’s clean. It’s platonic, and nothing more than simple empathy, but Dean closes his eyes and has to stifle a sigh. “God,” he breathes. “I have not been touched in years.” His eyes fly open and he looks over at the aide. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean _—_ I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” she replies quickly, sliding just a bit closer to him on the bed, her forehead knitting in concern. “That can’t be true. Years? Everyone gets touched by someone they love.” Dean’s silent, looking down at his hands. “Really? No, I mean, not a friend? Your mother? People need to be touched.”

Dean shakes his head ruefully. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I know my son, when he was younger, ten or eleven even, he used to run up and throw his arms around me.” Dean stops and stares at the ceiling, unable to continue.

The aide looks around and seemingly makes a decision, pulling the privacy curtain and scooting back over to Dean. She places a palm gently on his face, soothing it over his cheek and down his rough whiskers, adding her other hand to the opposite side of his face and just caressing. She brushes the hair off of his forehead, trails the pads of her fingers down his chin. Dean closes his eyes, half in pure relief at the kind, _real_ sensation, but also to prevent the tears that are welling up from leaking out against his will. As her fingers drag over his skin, he _remembers_ what it was like to do this, to feel this, with someone he loved. There’s nothing sexual at all here, just comfort, solace, healing; from a nurse’s aide to her patient who desperately needs it. Soon enough, Dean forgets himself though, allowing his hand to drift up to the aide’s face, feeling her soft, warm skin beneath his own fingertips. She grabs his fingers then, not unkindly but firm all the same, and pulls away, pushing Dean’s arm back against his own chest.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, flinging back the privacy curtain and darting away. 

Dean watches her go, returning his gaze to the ceiling when she’s out of sight. “I’m scared,” he whispers out loud, but only the silence answers back.

***

Dean counts his lucky stars that his Baby wasn’t towed while he was in the hospital. Maybe DMC let it go because they’re worried they triggered his condition by firing him. Dean clearly knows that isn’t true, but he’s in no rush to disabuse them of the notion. He _did_ collapse on company property. _Maybe I’ll apply for worker’s comp_ , he thinks with a chuckle, imagining the look on Crowley’s face. Obviously not, but perhaps the very public incident will be enough to keep them from suing the pants off of him for all the property damage, or withdrawing his severance package. He needs that to get the house built, to set up something for Jack to inherit instead of just leaving behind his rancid, broke down legacy of failure.

Dean slides behind the wheel and inhales the scent of leather and motor oil and _home._ The only thing that ever smelled more like home to Dean than Baby was his husband, something that remains true to this day.

 _Castiel._ Dean doesn’t second guess his desire to see his ex, just throws the car into drive and makes his way over to the house Cas and Jack share with Meg and Meg’s twins from her own previous marriage. Things are different now than they were even a couple of days ago. Dean feels free, excited, _ready_ in a way he hasn’t come anywhere close to in years. He supposes it isn’t so surprising, probably a lot of people staring down the barrel of their own mortality experience something similar. Dean decides not to overthink it. He’s wasted too much of his life doing exactly that, and where’s it gotten him? Pulling into the driveway of the much nicer house the love of his life left to live in with someone else. If ever there was a case for change, Dean’s pretty sure it couldn’t be more in your face than his entire existence. He comes to a stop on the gravel and slides his Baby into park, climbing out and striding up to the front door with more familiarity than he knows Meg would like. He tests the knob and because it’s open and Meg’s car isn’t in the driveway, he lets himself in.

Castiel is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and looking beautifully disheveled. His normal work outfit is already broken down for the evening, his jacket slung over a kitchen chair and his button-down shirt undone part-way, revealing just this side of too much tanned and toned chest underneath. He’s still got his dress slacks on but he’s barefoot, and Dean wishes he could sweep him up in his arms. _This should be easier after fifteen years._ But it isn’t. The butterflies, the dry mouth, the swelling rush he’s always felt when Castiel entered the room has never gone away, never lessened, never given Dean a goddamn break.

“I could be anyone,” he announces by way of greeting, and his words sound confident and light, betraying nothing of the storm inside his chest.

Castiel snorts. “Then why do you stay you?”

Dean peers over Castiel’s shoulder as he passes by, grunting in disapproval at the pile of vegetables and salmon waiting to be baked. Castiel doesn’t flinch from the invasion of his personal space, but he does poke Dean in the ribs with the tip of his knife when he lingers a moment too long. “Salmon is the worst fish,” Dean declares, opening Castiel’s fridge and snatching a beer without asking.

“Good thing you’re not invited to eat any,” Castiel snarks back, but there’s no malice in his tone. He and Cas have formed a sort of tentative truce in the past few years, even approaching what some might deem actual friendship, at least when Meg isn’t around. They haven’t had much of a choice, what with how much of a handful Jack’s become as a teen.

“Where is he?” Dean asks, leaning casually on the breakfast bar across from his ex-husband. He reaches forward to grab a carrot and gets his hand slapped.

“In his room.” Castiel sighs. “Listen, Dean. About what we talked about last week, Jack coming to stay with you for the summer.”

Dean nods as he fingers the peeling label of his beer. “Yep, I’m all ready for him. I’m finally gonna tear down the shack and build the house. I uh, I thought maybe I could get him to help.”

Big, soulful blue eyes snap to attention at that, though they quickly narrow with the skepticism of someone who’s _heard that before, Dean._ Castiel waves him off, “You’ve been saying that for twenty years.” He seems to shake off easily whatever it was that gripped him, returning to his dicing and avoiding eye contact with Dean. “Anyway, I wasn’t serious, so you don’t have to get into any actual construction to get out of it.”

Dean shakes his head, “ _I’m_ serious, Cas. There’s nothing to stop me now. I’m gonna use my severance and cash in my life insurance policy, live out of the garage in the meantime. And I want Jack with me.”

“No, you don’t,” Castiel says with a short, bitter laugh.

“Yes, I do, I want Jack,” Dean insists.  
  
“One of you will end up dead.”

“At least we’ll have a house to show for it.” When he doesn’t get a reply, Dean leans over the bar and covers Castiel’s hand with his own, ducking his head so he’s forced to let their eyes meet. He hasn’t been this close to Castiel’s face in years and it’s no less perfect than he remembers it. “I _want_ _Jack,_ ” he repeats, firmly and insistently. “For the summer.”

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly, his pupils dilating and his lips parting in a way that Dean aches over. “Fine,” he relents, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s your funeral.”

“Not yet.” Dean grins, and Castiel’s forehead knits together. _Always so perceptive,_ Dean remembers, chastising himself for the too-close-to-home joke. _Bail out now._ “Bail out now” apparently translates to his hand as, “stroke Cas’ face,” and Dean almost gets his finger bitten off for his efforts.

“Rude.” He grins, as Castiel’s teeth snap in his direction, pulling his hand away and cradling it to his chest. Castiel just glares and goes back to his vegetables. Dean clears his throat, inclining his head in the direction of Jack’s room. “I’m gonna-”

“Are we going to talk about it?” Castiel doesn’t look up this time, but nonetheless, Dean can still feel his eyes boring through his skull.

“Damn, Cas, you’re nosy today. And loud. Were you always this loud?”

“Where you _were,_ Dean. For the last goddamn week. I called your phone, it was disconnected. I tried you at work, they said—honestly, I doubt you want to know what they said. They mentioned something about towing your car? You _disappeared_ , you could have been dead. And now you show up here out of the blue and acting as if nothing happened? What’s going on, Dean?”

Dean just shrugs and downs the rest of his beer. “It was four days… I needed some me time,” he finally replies, casting Castiel a wide, showy smile.

The glare he gets in return could level cities. “Dean, you are completely inconsiderate and absolutely devoid of emotion,” Castiel fumes.

There was a time when Dean would have latched on enthusiastically to this sort of intrusive demand into his life, pointed out viciously that Castiel has absolutely no right to that sort of information, not anymore, and goaded him into a knock-down, drag-out fight. He would have used his ex-husband’s anger, his obvious concern as a way to bait him. He would have pushed all the buttons just underneath Castiel’s skin that he knows so well, irritating him and jabbing away until he inevitably got fed up, exploded and kicked Dean to the curb, maybe literally. But not today. Today he just looks down briefly at his hands before offering a genuine smile. “You’re the most beautiful human being I’ve ever known,” he says honestly.

Castiel's hand shoots up to push his dark hair back as his head snaps up again, blue eyes piercing, stormy and confused. “What?”

Stepping back to the counter, Dean sets his beer down and looks Castiel directly in those eyes. “I don’t even mean just physically, though,” he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, “Even your anger, Cas, it’s perfect.”

Cas’ expression goes through three or four iterations, finally settling on ‘confused’ before he replies, and he leans in just slightly. “What is this Dean?”

“What is what?”

“What you just said,” Castiel’s obviously uncomfortable now, but something about the look on his face betrays that it isn’t _what_ Dean said, so much as the fact that he doesn’t understand why he said it.

Dean goes for broke. “It’s the truth,” he replies simply, reaching out to touch again, this time getting his hand whacked with a spatula. “Jesus,” he grunts.

“Well I _am_ married,” Castiel huffs, but Dean can see that he isn’t mad, perhaps just curious.

 _Time to cut my losses and take the win._ He salutes and turns on his heel, heading off to go and see his son. He doesn’t look back but he can’t hear the telltale sound of Castiel’s knife on the cutting board until long after he’s rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

***

On Saturday when Dean shows up at the house to pick up Jack, he can hear him as soon as he steps out of his car. He doesn’t bother with the front door, just unlatches the side gate and makes his way around to the back. Cas and Meg’s house ( _Meg’s house,_ he thinks disdainfully, bought and paid for with her high powered big shot lawyer money, _it’s not even Cas’ style. Though what would you know about what Cas likes anymore?_ He scowls. _I used to.)_ is sprawling. Five bedrooms in the main house plus Jack’s in the two-story addition. That part was added only a couple of years ago, complete with its own entrance in the rear of the house, Dean suspects largely as a way to give Meg space from the unruly teen. Cas’ studio is underneath, not that Dean’s ever been allowed in, though he’s seen the man emerge with paint splattered all over his skin and clothes more than once.

Dean grits his teeth at that thought too— _fucking Meg giving his Cas the one thing he’d always wanted, the thing Dean had always promised he’d deliver._ He knows logically that he has no right to be angry, not then and certainly not a decade later, but Dean remembers watching Castiel paint in _his_ backyard. Shirtless and stunning in the early evening light, his face relaxed and peaceful as he gazed out over the ocean and dragged brushstrokes over cheap canvas. He can still picture it perfectly, Cas’ tanned face turning when Dean finally made his presence known in the clinking of a couple of beer bottles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered a serene, happy smile. His mouth tasted like salt and suntan lotion and Dean still wakes up these days with that taste on his own lips.

He rounds the corner to see Castiel perched at the top of the stair-rail leading up to Jack’s door, looking annoyed as ever. The twins are outside too, kicking off their summer vacation seemingly by trying to drown each other in the big, kidney-shaped pool just off of the patio. Dean doesn’t really pay them any mind, having eyes only for Cas. He can’t help but be pleased that his ex’s pissed off expression is for once not directed at him.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he remarks, planting one foot on the bottom stair and looking up. “‘Nother day in paradise?”

Castiel’s biting his nails, and he doesn’t stop on Dean’s account. “What kind of father can’t stand his own son?”

That brings Dean up short, Castiel’s unexpected honesty throwing him for a loop. He’s not sure if this is a vulnerability, or exasperation. Knowing Castiel, it’s probably the latter, but an opening is an opening. Still, he hesitates.

“I don’t know,” he replies carefully, deciding Cas’ honesty deserves at least the same in return. He climbs the stairs slowly until he reaches Castiel’s feet where they’re hooked around one of the vertical poles of the railing. He leans on the rail just below them, and the rock music filtering through Jack’s door seems to ratchet up a notch. “How are you, Cas? You look…” he trails off and doesn’t bother to try and pick up the question again.

Castiel’s head thuds back against the side of the house. He regards Dean thoughtfully, cautiously, but without malice for a moment before answering. He shakes his head a little. “Honestly? I have no goddamn idea what I’m doing, Dean.” He pauses, tossing a glance towards Jack’s closed door. “Meg is traveling all the time, the boys haven’t even _seen_ her in weeks, not even Facetime. Jack is Jack, and I’m…” He sighs. “Do you ever just… wake up and ask yourself, how the _hell_ did I get here?”

Dean raises his eyebrows and has to choke down a laugh. “Uh, yea,” he settles on as a reply. “Sometimes.” _Every fucking minute of every goddamn day, you stupid, beautiful bastard. Fucking say something, Winchester, you useless—_

“Listen, Cas, we should-”

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish his thought, to find out if Castiel is just venting or if he’s reaching out. Because right then, Jack’s door clicks and swings open. Jack looks like an actual advertisement for bottled teen angst, decked out completely in black that’s accented with mesh and chains, despite the fact that it’s already almost eighty degrees in the shade. His ears, his eyebrow and the space below his lip are pierced, he’s got a heap of guyliner on, tattoos gracing his knuckles, and his hair is _blue. Jesus Christ,_ Dean thinks, suddenly feeling old. _Did he google “teenage rebellion” or is this an actual look these days?_

He side-eyes Castiel. “Why does he have a lock on his door?”

“Because he _put_ a lock on it, Dean, Christ, I _—_ ”

“When did he get ink? And his hair is _blue!”_

“Oh, of all the-”

“I’m not _fucking_ going with you. You’re not my real father and you can’t make me.” Jack crosses his arms and leans on the door jamb.

Dean spreads his arms wide in direct opposition. “I’m as real as they come, baby. C’mon, where’s your duffel?” He pushes past Jack into his disaster of a room. Mountains of clothes, impossible to tell which are clean and which are dirty, litter the floor. Dirty plates and cups, school books that look like their bindings would crack from disuse if you opened them, and an assortment of other things Dean’s not sure he wants to look too closely at are scattered amongst the debris. His toe kicks against something metal as he shuffles through it all, and Dean looks down to see a can of spray paint rolling away from a paint-covered cloth. He picks it up and shakes it at Jack; empty.

“You need all the brain cells you got,” he scolds, before chucking the can away again. There’s a duffel bag half-packed on the bed, and Dean stoops to throw in a few more things, whatever seems the least gross and isn’t touching any toxic dishware. Dean’s pretty sure he spies a fuzz-covered bowl that looks like it’s close to putting down actual roots under the bed, and makes a note to mention it to Cas later if the guy doesn’t piss him off too badly. Whatever it was looks like it may soon need a name and rabies shots instead of a dishwasher.

He completely ignores Jack, who’s still ranting and raving in the background. Castiel isn’t entertaining his tantrum either, standing in the doorway and leaning heavily on his elbow, his forearm over his face so it blocks at least half of his vision. Dean zips the bag and offers it to Jack. “ _Fuck_ you,” Jack spits, and Dean shrugs, strolling back across the room and out onto Jack’s balcony. “No, wait!” Jack’s cries are too little, too late though as Dean heaves the duffle up over the railing and sends it crashing down into the pool with a giant _SPLASH._ The twins cheer loudly, and Jack screams obscenities. The bag just floats there.

“I’m not going. You can’t make me.” Jack turns to Castiel, and clearly, this isn’t a new tactic because Castiel’s already looking like he’s willing to do or say whatever he has to in order to end this. “I have _plans!_ This is so unfair, Dad, _tell_ him!”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “What plans?”

“I’m going to Corey’s parent’s cabin in Tahoe, Dad already said I could.”

Dean whips around then, furious and focusing on Castiel. “You didn’t tell him he was spending the summer with me?”

Castiel’s hands come up and drop to his sides. “What was I supposed to do, Dean? I called, your phone isn’t working.”

“I don’t have a phone anymore,” Dean mutters.

“Who are you anyway?” Jack stalks up to get in his face, eyes dark and liner smudged, his chest heaving with anger. “I don’t even know you.”

“You’ll know me by the time we’re through,” Dean replies calmly.

“I’m not going!” Back to Castiel. “Would you tell him that I’m not going? You already promised me!”

“I’ll get your bag.” Dean leaves his ex and his son behind to bicker as he heads out of Jack’s room and down the stairs, passing by Castiel who looks torn between intervening and throwing them a celebratory send-off.

“Dean, I did say he could go…”

Fed up, Dean turns at the bottom of the stairs to address the two of them, both standing at the top and glaring down at him with matching exasperated expressions. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Jack isn’t Castiel’s biological son- they’re so fucking similar. He points his finger. “He is _not_ spending the entire summer with some _kid_ in Tahoe. He can hate me! You can hate me! He can try to kill me while I’m sleeping, I don’t care. Jack is spending the summer with me, OK? He’s my son, he’s sixteen. That’s _it_.” Dean stalks over to the pool and yanks Jack’s bag out, trailed closely behind by Cas and Jack himself, the latter of whom is currently on the verge of tears and angrier than Dean’s ever seen him. He’s got a vein in his left temple that perfectly matches the one Cas has, the same one that swells and bulges when he’s particularly upset. Dean’s resolve strengthens.

In the meantime, one of Meg’s twins pops out of the pool and sloshes over to them. “Can I hate you too, Dean?”

Dean ruffles the kid’s hair. “You can do anything you want,” he says kindly, and Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean shoves the dripping duffle bag into Jack’s hands. “Go get in the car.”

“You can go fuck yourself,” Jack spits, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Instead of yelling, Dean grabs at him, pulls him into a hug despite Jack’s resistance. It takes a bit of struggling to keep him from pushing away, but Dean’s nothing if not persistent when he decides he wants something, and he holds on until Jack sags minutely against him, clearly realizing the quickest way out is giving in. “Listen, _listen,”_ Dean grunts, letting Jack pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You are coming with me, and you will follow my rules. You will work, and you will show me some respect. You’ve worn out your welcome at this house, Jack. This might be the worst summer of your life, but you’ve earned it. So go pick up your duffel and get in the car, _now._ ”

Jack sniffs his running nose and fruitlessly tries to wipe away the tears from his reddened eyes using his shoulder since Dean’s still holding his arms. “I’ll hate you for the rest of my life,” he grits out between clenched teeth.

Dean releases him, and Jack picks up his bag. “Well, you can’t even begin to know how much I hate my father. Think of it as a family tradition,” he replies brightly.

They’re off to a great start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank Foxy for allowing me to share this mockup of Jack with you all! ;)  
> 

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/pPptncY)

The rest of the night doesn’t go much better. By dinnertime, Dean’s pulled four cigarettes out of Jack’s mouth, caught him with a bottle of unmarked pills, and relieved him of a glass of Dean’s own whiskey before Jack seems to give up on poisoning his body for the time being. His other avenues of entertainment thwarted, Jack collapses dramatically onto the pull-out couch shoved in next to Dean’s workbench in the garage and jams some expensive-looking wireless earbuds into his ears. He doesn’t even attempt to offer Dean any help in moving the remainder of his belongings from the house into the garage.

When he’s done, Dean heats up some chili and ladles it into two bowls. He pulls a chair up next to Jack’s bed and pokes him with his toe until he opens his eyes and reluctantly moves to take the dish thrust out for him. Dean pulls it back at the last second though, motioning for the earbuds to come out first. Jack sighs and sends him a death glare, but the teen-boy metabolism Dean had been counting on must win out, because he complies. He sighs heavily and pointedly again as Dean hands over the bowl.

“It won’t be all work, you know,” Dean offers, leaning back in his own chair and spooning some chili into his mouth. “And your dad and the boys can come by anytime you want.”

Jack just huffs, but the angsty effect is lessened now that he’s rinsed clean and metal-free. Despite the colorful ink poking through the collar of his shirt, he looks younger, more vulnerable, to Dean at least. He can _almost_ see the little boy Jack used to be. After some back and forth when they arrived home that afternoon, Jack had willingly taken the jewelry out of his face, accepting Dean’s bargain that he could earn it back with good behavior. He couldn’t resist mouthing off though, going on about how Dean was “inhibiting his right to self-expression” and “do you really want me to end up like _you?_ Emotionally constipated, repressed and alone? _”_ That one had stung.

“Where am I supposed to go to the bathroom?”

Jack’s question pulls Dean back to the present, where he’s currently sitting with his spoon dangling halfway between the bowl and his mouth. He grins when he hears the question though and points to the toilet in the corner of the garage. Jack’s mouth drops comically wide though he recovers quickly, schooling his face back into a pout. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you to it,” Dean jokes.

“This can’t be legal.”

“Perfectly up to code, I checked,” Dean lies.

Jack just shakes his head. “S’your funeral. Dad says I can clear a room with just one.”

Dean’s head tips back in laughter as he replies, “You sure you’re not my son?”

It’s Jack’s turn to shrug. “Seems like I’m up for grabs.”

 

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/VCN7wJk)

***

The sun’s almost down by the time Dean’s finished sorting and storing his belongings. Jack disappeared outside sometime after dinner, and Dean’s congratulating himself on resisting the urge to follow him around like a mother hen. _Gotta give a little to get a little,_ he tells himself. _Let the leash out a bit, you can always reel it back in._ Easier said than done. When he runs out of excuses and things to poke through in the garage, he moves to head outside under the pretense of doing one last sweep of the old house before they start tear-down tomorrow. Before he does, he pops a pain pill. So far, he hasn’t had any “events” like the one that landed him in the hospital, and the actual symptoms of his cancer seem to be pretty minor, but the pain does flare every now and then.

He replaces the bottle of oral morphine in his bedside table drawer and side-eyes the second bottle sliding around in there. It’s a big one, and there are several more tucked away in his former work bag. They’re the pills for the trial and not for the first time, Dean reconsiders his decision not to take them. He glances around, worried Jack might come back in and start asking questions, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Dean picks up the bottle and reads the directions over again. They’re simple and straightforward; take three times a day, with meals. All he has to do is take one, and email the doctor that he’s decided to go ahead and try. He taps the bottle against his palm for a moment, and then drops it back into the drawer, sliding it closed and pushing the drugs from his mind. Best to just make the most of the time he has.

He heads outside where the last rays of red and orange are still lighting up the horizon to find Jack sitting bolt upright and perfectly still on the edge of the cliffs. There’s no fence here because the only thing good about this property is the view and Dean’ll be damned if he’s gonna cock it up with any kind of barrier. When he was younger, he used to run and jump right off these cliffs, falling the fifty or so feet into the ocean, letting the current drag him out and then swimming back in. It was exhilarating _—_ it made him feel alive. Cas would holler and freak out every time he did it, but with a little coaxing and some predatory tickling, eventually, they’d be holding hands and jumping together.

 _Like Thelma and Louise,_ Dean muses. He wonders why he ever stopped but realizes that in retrospect, there aren’t many things he _didn’t_ stop after Cas left. It was like he let Castiel take part of his soul with him when he walked out that door, and now Dean wants it back. He wants it all back. He just hopes he’s not too late.

Jack doesn’t turn when he approaches, not that Dean really expects him to. He’s got his hands folded carefully in the lap of his baggy black cargo shorts and he’s staring down the horizon like it owes him something.

“Thinking of jumping?” Dean strolls up beside his son, and tries to appear non-threatening, popping his hands into his own pockets and standing with his slightly bowed legs wide and casual.

“Pushing,” Jack replies after a moment, giving him the barest side-eye.

“Well, if you change your mind, don’t jump until you hear the waves crash against the cliff. The water’ll take you out, let it. First time I did it, I was younger’n you, thought I’d break my neck and just sort of… float out to Catalina. You don’t always get what you wish for.”

When Jack doesn’t respond, Dean makes a split-second decision. _What the hell, why not?_ He backs up, kicks off his boots, and listens for the crash he was talking about. When he hears it, everything comes rushing back and with a loud whooping cry, he jumps. _It’s like flying._ For those few seconds between when his feet leave the grass and his body hits the water, he’s _free,_ he’s soaring, he’s leaving every unfixable problem and every soul-crushing regret behind inside that godforsaken house. The wind soothes past his face, warm and soft and caressing him as if he belongs to the sky. And then the water greets his body, surrounding him, rushing around and up and over him, pulling him down into its cool, refreshing depths and buoying him out to sea like an old friend. When he surfaces it’s with another loud yelp of joy, and he bobs there for a moment just basking. _It’s almost like being happy again,_ he thinks, and then he hears Jack yelling.

From his spot in the water, he can see Jack slipping and sliding down the dusky-lit sandy side of the cliff, hollering something unintelligible. He swims briskly towards the shoreline and laughs as Jack’s rantings become clear and louder as he makes his way down the little beach to the side of the rock face. He’s standing in the water now, boots on and everything, and he’s looking at Dean like he’s just admitted he occasionally likes to bathe in acid. “Hello?! I don’t believe this! Are you totally insane? God. I have a total wacko for a father.”

“HELL YEA!” Dean roars, exploding out of the water with his hands in the air. “Feels fuckin’ good.” He stalks forward and lunges to tackle Jack down, but the boy dodges and stomps out of the water and off down the beach leaving Dean to stumble around in the shallows.

“Un-fucking-real,” Jack fumes loudly, but Dean’s smiling because Jack called him his father.

He can fix this. He’s going to fix this.

***

A short while later, Dean’s toweling off and throwing on some sleepwear inside the garage when he hears voices outside, one that sounds like it belongs to Jack. The big door’s still open, so he makes his way over and peeks out. It is Jack, and he’s talking to Claire from next door. She’s obviously flirting, and Jack looks absolutely terrified. Dean grins and sends Jack some silent good luck to not screw this up. Claire would be great for him. Dean had gotten to know her pretty well back when he was dating her mother, and being neighbors, they’d kept in touch since. Claire wasn’t the kind of girl you bossed around or pulled one over on, and as feisty as she’s always been, she’s also smart as hell and takes no shit. If she’s interested in Jack, she’ll probably be able to slap his ass in line long before Dean ever has the chance. Plus, as far as Dean knows she isn’t into drinking or drugs, and Jack obviously could use some more friends in that club. He watches as Lisa pops her head out the front door calling Claire’s name, and Claire jabs her thumb towards her house like, _that’s my cue._

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Jack says hesitantly, but he sounds unsure.

Claire cocks her head to the side and juts out a hip. “How come?”

“I- I’m supposed to be in Tahoe. My friend is coming to pick me up. My dad’s crazy, you know.”

Dean might have taken offense to that in other circumstances, but he _did_ just jump off of a cliff and is now crouched half-naked in his own garage-turned-house, spying on his son while he talks to a girl. Point.

But Claire just smiles. “Well… if you stay, maybe I’ll see you around?” She looks up at Jack shyly from under her lashes, and Dean fist pumps. “You should stay. Where is your dad, anyway?”

Jack smiles a little and casts a look towards the cliffs before turning back to Claire. “He jumped into the ocean.”

“Hmm,” Claire replies. “Well, tell him I said hello.” She smiles at Jack again before wandering off back towards Lisa’s house, and Dean watches Jack watch her go. He decides not to confront Jack tonight about his great escape plan. He knows that look, the one he has on his face as Claire walks away. Jack’s not going anywhere and hell, Dean will take what he can get. One thing at a time. Step one: get him to stay. _Check._

Before he passes out for the night, Dean borrows Jack’s phone and shoots off an email before taking his first pill from the big bottle in the drawer. He falls asleep to the sound of Jack snoring.

***

The sun coming up through the curtainless window wakes Dean early the next morning. Jack stays completely oblivious, head burrowed under his comforter and socked feet sticking out over the edge of the bed. Dean makes a weak attempt to rouse him but gives up after almost getting kicked in the chest. Apparently, Jack’s an angry sleeper. He’s about to turn away when he catches sight of Jack’s phone next to him on the bed, a new message from _“Dad”_ lighting up the screen _._ Dean only hesitates for a moment before swiping it open.

**_Everything alright?_ **

He drums his fingers on the side of the phone for a moment while he debates whether to reply, but shrugs and figures he’s not _really_ doing anything wrong. So what if he’s not keen to turn down an excuse to get Castiel over here, to show him he means business this time? So what if his time is running short to make things right...

 _All good. C u l8tr?_ Dean winces at his own weak attempt at teenage slang, but hits send anyway and doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

**_Hello Dean. I’ll be by before I pick the boys up from camp._ **

_That obvious?_

**_I know you. CUL8R ;)_ **

Dean deletes the messages, no sense in setting himself up to be mocked by Jack too. He yawns, stretches, ignores the twinge of pain in his back. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was nothing more than a sign of the times; forty-year-olds get weird aches and pains constantly (so he’s heard). But he does know better, and after shoving a microwave breakfast sandwich down his throat, he heads to his bedside drawer. Something about it looks a little off, but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. All the same, instead of just putting his narcotics away this time, he tucks them into the foot of a sock and pushes them to the back of the drawer. And after downing one, he does the same with the pills for the trial; different sock, different drawer. He’s just not ready to have that conversation with Jack _—_ not yet, and stumbling across a set of medications like these would be the surest way for him to be backed into a corner.

He steps outside into the bright sunshine and looks at the crumbling shell of a house one last time. It finally feels like a new day. He gets to work.

***

Jack does finally stumble out several hours later, shirtless and pale, only to promptly plug his ears with those same fancy buds and collapse sideways onto Dean’s cushioned lounge chair, promptly falling back asleep again. From his vantage point up on the roof where he’s currently ripping off shingles, Dean sighs and side-eyes the blue wings spreading over almost the entirety of Jack’s back. Apparently, it’s going to take more than polite suggestion to recruit Jack to his mission. He brainstorms ideas but nothing stands out _—_ nothing that won’t make Jack resent him even more, anyway.

Around noon, he notices Jack’s skin getting a little pink, at least where it isn’t full of artificial color. Partly out of concern for his well-being but mostly because he doesn’t want to listen to the inevitable bitching all night, he climbs down from the roof and grabs a bottle of sunscreen. “Jack,” he calls, but there’s no reply. “Jack,” he tries again, accompanied by a toe nudge to his boot. Nothing. Sighing, Dean squeezes a pile of lotion into his hand and wipes it across Jack’s shoulder. That does it.

“Don’t touch me!” Jack squirms away, standing up and wiping the lotion off of his skin while simultaneously shooting Dean that death glare he’s becoming so fond of. Now that Dean’s closer and Jack is facing him, he can see the heart-shaped tattoo up by his right collarbone. “ _Son of the Devil”,_ it reads in flowing script. Internally, he rolls his eyes and wonders if that’s for him, Cas, or his biological father. Knowing Jack, the answer is probably all of them.

“Fine, then you do it,” Dean reasons. “I warned you yesterday.”

“You can’t touch me.”

They’re staring each other down like that when Claire walks up, acting or actually oblivious to the tension, Dean can’t tell. “Hey!” She smiles brightly at Jack, her long blond hair blowing gently in the wind. “You stayed.”

Dean turns to her and presses the lotion into her palm with a wink. “Rub him down, would you, Claire?” He disappears up the ladder and over to the far side of the roof under the pretense of not listening to their conversation, but he’s definitely pretending.  

“He’s insane,” Jack grumps, making his way back to the lounge chair and plopping down heavily.

“So you said.” Claire grins. “You look better without makeup.”

“I can’t even take a shower here,” Jack complains, and Dean forces himself to bite his own tongue. _Dramatic,_ he thinks. _That shower is perfectly functional_.

“Come over to my house whenever you want,” Claire’s saying when he tunes back in. “I’ll tell my mom.”

“Well I _—_ I might not even stay,” Jack insists, and Dean rolls his eyes, glad he’s out of sight.

Claire nods, pursing her lips a little as silence hangs between them. Fortunately, Claire’s not that easily swayed. “I could get your back, I don’t mind,” she offers, waving the lotion at him.

Jack’s eyes narrow, and he reaches out his hand to take the bottle back. “No, that’s okay, I-”

“Have you ever had anyone besides your mom or dad put it on for you? It’s uh, it’s weird how different it is. Turn around, lay down.” She’s smirking as she holds the bottle just out of his reach, and Jack seems powerless not to comply. Even Dean has to admit, she’s good. He’s just glad she seems interested in Jack. He leaves them to their own devices for real this time and goes back to pulling shingles. Eventually, a car pulls up and Claire’s friends holler at her from inside until she takes off, waving goodbye to Jack with promises that she’ll catch up later.

Dean stands and looks over the roof to watch the car drive away. “Nice, right,” he says encouragingly when he notices Jack looking up at him.

Silence. Death glare. Again. Jack wings the lotion at him and disappears inside the garage.

“Feel free to pitch in any time,” Dean calls after him.

***

It’s early afternoon when the summer heat finally gets the best of Dean and he breaks for lunch. He wonders when Cas will show up as he flips the outside shower on, dunking his head under the cool water and breathing a sigh of relief. He can’t help but throw a glance out the garage door and down the as-yet empty street as he throws together a couple of sandwiches. He brings one out to Jack, who’s returned from wherever he stomped off to and is now laying in the grass, picking one blade at a time. Something about him is just a little off, but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Jack, humor me. Answer me this: Do you ever get, like, the slightest inkling you might want to help me? Instead of doing, oh, I don’t know, ab-so-lute-ly nothing?” Dean tosses the sandwich down in front of him and Jack lifts up the bread, pulling a face at its contents.

“I hate turkey.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If I say I do, I do.”

Jack lifts his head then, and Dean gets a good look at him. His earrings are back in, along with the chin piercing. “Thought we had a deal.”

Jack shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

Searching the immediate area, Dean spies his hammer, picks it up and advances on Jack. “C’mon, at least the lip one, let me take it out,” he teases.

“Why?”

Unable to genuinely come up with anything more valid, Dean goes with honesty. “It bugs me.”

He should have known that his own damn son would be ready for that. “You snore at night, that bugs me. Can I take you out?”

“Touché,” Dean replies, dropping the hammer and settling down in his own lounge chair, sandwich on his lap. He takes a big bite and stares out over the water, the sun reflecting off of its surface and scattering like crystals in every direction. _Things could be worse,_ he thinks, _I’m here with my son, it’s a beautiful day, and this house is going to be built._

And like someone on high is granting wishes today, that’s when Castiel comes around the corner, carrying two giant pizza boxes.

“Hello, Dean. Hi Jack. Thought you guys might be hungry.”

“We’re fine,” Dean insists, because Rome wasn’t built in a day. “Turkey sandwiches.”

“Oh. Well, for later then.” Castiel slides the boxes onto the table and takes a seat. He drifts over to the side of the house and runs his palm over the flaking paint, the splintering wood. “Oh,” he says again, but quietly, “Makes me sad.”

“Why?” Dean’s expression of confusion is not the least bit exaggerated as

Castiel turns to him, incredulous.

“I used to live here!”

The frown lines in Dean’s forehead deepen, but his tone stays friendly. “Yea, and you hated three out of the four years you did.”

“I was here five years, and I only hated two,” Castiel replies smoothly, and it kills Dean how easily he seems to remember.

Because he’s a masochist, he finds himself asking, “Which ones?”

“The first and the last,” Castiel says gently, his voice wistful.

Things are getting a bit too heavy for Dean’s liking, so he goes with what he knows best; a subject change. “I don’t even like turkey sandwiches,” he announces, standing and making his way over to the picnic table. “What’s this pizza?”

“Jack’s favorite,” Castiel replies, raising his voice so that Jack can hear him where he’s perched at the edge of the cliffs again. “Pineapple. Sure you don’t want any?” Jack shakes his head, and Castiel turns back to his ex-husband, sizing him up. “Dean, you’re too thin. From what you used to be, anyway.”

At first, Dean doesn’t reply, intentionally busying himself with picking the offensive yellow fruit off of otherwise perfectly good pizza. But then… _Nothing changes if you don’t change,_ he hears in his head as he pretends to be occupied with closing the pizza box. He gathers his courage and asks the question that’s digging away at him. “Why the first and the last?”

Castiel blinks, obviously unprepared for Dean to circle back to an _actual_ conversation. “Um… I suppose, because the first year I wasn’t sure if you really loved me, and the last because I wasn’t sure that I really loved you.” He says it so plainly, so easily, so _honestly_ that Dean can’t even be mad. He searches within himself to see if that anger is just buried, waiting to rear its ugly head, and he finds nothing. Nothing except a deep, overwhelming sadness for everything he’s lost- and for the apparent fact that Castiel had doubted his feelings.

He clears his throat. “You know, I was up on that roof today, tearing it down, and it struck me, strong as anything ever has, I’m _happy_ today.”

Turning back from where he’s examining the outside of the house, Castiel cocks his head, and he looks _so much_ like Jack it hurts. “And what were you before today?”

Dean pauses before his next bite of food to think. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it was _—_ the way the sun was hitting the ocean, the sound of the waves... it was simple, whatever it was. And so I started thinking, when was the last time I felt like this?” He takes another bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully.

“Do you remember?” Castiel wanders over to the table and sinks down across from him, resting his elbow on the table and dropping his chin into his hand.

“Well.” Dean swallows, wipes his hands on a napkin. “Yea. The one time, I remember for sure. I was with, uh, Jack, in the ocean. Saving him from the waves. He had his head on my shoulder, and we were laughing… I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. I remember I kissed his hair… that was before it was blue.” He grins, and Castiel huffs a small, choked off laugh.

“I’m pretty sure we have that on video. My parents were here for his fifth birthday, I remember.” He laughs, and the sound is sweet to Dean’s ears. “Remember their faces when they saw the house?” But he sobers quickly then, obviously remembering how _he’d_ reacted to his parents’ criticism, and how everything came tumbling down so soon after. Dean’s looks away then in favor of watching Jack and remembering him how he used to be, so he doesn’t see Castiel’s eyes fill with tears until he turns back to find him sniffling and wiping them away. “I’ve got to go,” he says shortly, pushing up from the table.

Dean has a pretty good idea of what Cas is feeling, but he asks anyway. “What is it?”

With one last sniff and a wipe of his sleeve, Castiel shakes his head. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.” He heads back towards the front of the house and his car. “I’ll drop off your lunch tomorrow,” he calls back over his shoulder. Dean watches as he goes, and thinks he sees him continuing to wipe at his eyes, but he’s distracted from observing further by Jack appearing at his side.

“I’m going for a walk, I need some money,” he demands.

“You’ll have money when you work,” Dean replies simply.

Jack nods slowly. “You’re predictable,” he says. He starts to move away, but seems to think better of it and turns back slowly, looking Dean up and down. “You haven’t been happy in ten years?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just blinks at Dean and then walks away down the street.

Dean turns back to the ocean and closes his eyes against the afternoon sun. It’s warm on his face.

***

Even Dean has to admit (internally) that living out of the garage does have one _—_ very slight, and completely fixable _—_ downside. It’s the shower situation. It’s not completely tragic but it does leave a bit to be desired, not that Dean can acknowledge that out loud while Jack is within earshot. Slapped onto the side of the garage and meant for a quick post-beach rinse, it’s not exactly the height of luxury (or privacy), but like everything else, it’s only temporary. Midway through Dean’s admirable attempt to hang a more private curtain Jack had become fed up, yelling about how no one would blame him if he left and then suggesting Dean would be better served begging some money off of Meg (except that he hadn’t said “Meg”, he’d said _“my mom”,_ which hurt worse than some punches Dean’s taken in the past) instead of trying to build this “stupid house”.

Dean had very politely responded that he’d “rather sell his nuts to a castrati,” and Jack had stormed away, disappearing into the Braeden’s house to make use of their supposedly superior indoor shower, all the way continuing to yell across the lawn about what a miserable failure Dean is, and how he has nothing to offer him, like cable or Wi-Fi or something called Hulu, and what kind of an example did he expect to be for Jack when he didn’t even have a _job_?

_As if he needed another fucking reminder._

So Dean’s not huffy about that, not at all.

Before he took off, Jack had winged his phone at Dean with a salty, “My dad texted you.” Dean ignores the phone for the time being in favor of finishing with the shower, whooping excitedly when he finally gets the curtain hung properly. It’s dark now anyway and none of his neighbors are outside, so he decides his construct is _plenty_ private for one quick shower. Pulling off his clothes, Dean gets the water running only to realize- it’s not hot. Something’s wrong with the water heater. Granted, Dean’s no star plumber but he’s always been able to get by, and he checked the little water heater before he began this whole godforsaken project. Sighing dejectedly and yet resigned to his fate that nothing will ever go right for him, he steps in under the cold spray, jumping around and yelping as the cool water hits his skin. Which is probably why he doesn’t hear the car door slam and a voice calling out his name.

“Dean? Dean!”

Oblivious to the noise, Dean pushes the curtain back to grab his towel, exposing himself completely as he comes abruptly and unexpectedly face to face with the town Sheriff. Fortunately for Dean (or maybe unfortunately, for his dignity), the Sheriff also happens to be his longtime friend Garth. Well, _friend_ might be a bit of a strong word, but for whatever reason, Garth seems to like him.

“Jesus, that’s gotta be illegal,” Garth quips as Dean turns, accidentally mooning him in his attempt to get the towel around his waist. Garth just covers his eyes and continues to talk from behind his hand. “How are you, Dean?”

“Fuckin’ peachy, what the hell, Garth?” Dean whips the towel around his waist in record time. “Can’t a man take a shower in peace on his own property?”

“Got a complaint, had to follow-up. You know how it is, buddy. You living in your garage, Dean?”

Dean spares a glare over at the Braeden’s house and sees silhouettes in the windows that scatter when he looks up. “Can’t imagine who might’ve called that in,” he grunts. “And yea, check the permits. It was built as a guest house, it’s a legally rentable unit,” he recites.

“Yea, I hear you.” Garth chuckles. “Be that as it may, the law technically says I should cite you for indecent exposure, but I’ll let you off the hook this once so long as you enclose that shower.”

Dean grabs a second towel and rubs at his hair. “Yea. Sure, Garth, whatever you want. Bake you some cookies while you’re here?” The laugh he gets in return for that shitty joke is honest and real, and Dean realizes he should probably be nicer to Garth. He’s one of the few people left on the planet who bothers to be nice to him at all. “Uh thanks,” he tries. “For the warning.”

Garth tips his hat. “You got it, Dean. Keep up the good work. Call me if you need anything, alright?”

“Actually…” Dean takes a chance and explains to Garth about his project. He knows the man does some plumbing on the side and if word of mouth is to be believed, he’s decent at it. Garth is overly enthusiastic about helping out, just like Dean suspected he might be, but instead of being annoyed Dean discovers he’s actually warmed by the knowledge that Garth cares enough to pitch in. Still pantsless, Dean starts to shiver in the cool night air and Garth bids him goodnight, promising he’ll check back in soon about when he might be needed.

Dean waves him off, standing in his yard as Garth’s cruiser turns in the cul-de-sac and heads back down the street. He glances up at his neighbor’s house, the windows now properly darkened, one last time before grabbing Jack’s phone and heading inside.

There’s a pot of coffee on because Dean’s always got a pot of coffee on. Caffeine stopped affecting him normally years ago, now it’s just something familiar to drink. He grabs himself a mug and gets his bedtime medications out of their drawers. Something seems a little off about the narcotics bottle, the cap just slightly askew on its threads, but the count seems right so Dean shrugs it off. He’s just replacing the bottles and closing the drawers when Jack sticks his head in the door.

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up,” he declares and withdraws his head, letting the door slam.

Hurrying after him, Dean pulls it open again and steps outside. “You coming back?”

Jack glares over his shoulder as he tucks himself inside the passenger seat of a black, sporty little souped-up car Dean doesn’t recognize. The windows are tinted and he can’t see who’s driving. “If you’re lucky,” Jack replies, yanking the door shut harshly and vanishing down the street in a blur of chrome and red lights.

Dean pauses for a moment before heading back inside. He looks out over the dark Pacific, mysterious and yet still beautiful with the bright white moonlight reflecting all over it. He contemplates the idea of praying briefly but just as quickly discards it. He’s never been a man of faith, and a little thing like imminent death doesn’t seem like it’s going to change that. But if he _were…_ looking out over the ocean at night is definitely where he’d feel most inclined. There’s just something about its vast darkness, its peaceful consistency that makes Dean almost wish he _did_ believe. But if God really is up there, if he’s really listening, he’s either terminally pissed at Dean or he’s some kind of sadist because as Dean was so kindly reminded tonight, cancer is the least of his problems. It’s just the last, the _latest_ thing on the “reasons my life sucks” list, and God’s never cared before. He turns around and heads inside, the ocean at his back.

After kicking his feet up on his bed and making himself comfortable, he swipes open Jack’s abandoned phone and navigates to the text messages app. Dean’s not as technologically dumb as he might have let Crowley think, but he is unfamiliar with smartphones, and it takes him a few tries without a message to click and follow directly. Thankfully, Castiel’s last message to Jack is still there, and he opens it.

 

_I love you, Jack. Give him a chance. And give your phone to your father, I’d like a word._

**_Heya Cas._ **

_Hello, Dean. How are you this evening?_

**_Jack get into tinted racecars late at night often?_ **

_His friends aren’t my favorite crowd either, Dean. What would you have me do?_

**_I dunno, Cas, you’re the parent._ **

 

The phone in his hand rings suddenly, _“Dad”_ and a picture of a bed-headed Castiel in sunglasses lighting up the screen. He swipes to answer. “Cas,” he says, perhaps a bit more irritable than is warranted.

“Text messaging is unnecessarily time-consuming and I’m concerned our tones are going to become lost in translation.”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure my ‘tone’ is reading loud and clear, exactly the way I meant it to. And you love emojis.”

Castiel sighs, though it’s muted and tinny through the receiver. “What’s really wrong, Dean? Obviously, you were unable to prevent him from getting into the car as well, so I know that you’re not really mad at me. You’re hardly that much of a hypocrite.”

“Stop seeing through me.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m in a mood, Cas. I want to be angry. Let me have this.”

“Mmhmm. Tell me.”

Dean flips over on the bed and talks half into his pillow. “He called Meg his mother and said I have nothing to offer him.” The response he gets isn’t exactly what he’s expecting. Castiel bursts out laughing, and Dean feels his blood boil, all the way down to his toes. “Man, fuck you Cas, I _—_ ”

“No, no, Dean please _—_ I apologize, I wasn’t laughing at you, please don’t hang up.” Dean’s silent, clenching his teeth and fuming with a swirling mix of hurt and anger, but he waits for Castiel to continue. “Dean, Jack is a teenager. The day before you came to pick him up for the summer, Meg stopped over here between business trips. Do you know what he said to her? That just because I’m her trophy husband doesn’t make him her son, and that I’m more of a parent to her own sons than she’ll ever be. Dean, he’s a _teenager._ It’s a weapon. He knows how to stab and twist the knife. He’s just doing what teens do, being an asshole.”

That surprising last sentence pulls a laugh from Dean, and he actually feels a bit warmed by Castiel’s words. He puts the phone on speaker and settles in more comfortably on the bed. “Thanks, Cas.”

“It’s the truth.”

He pauses for a moment and they sit there in a not-uncomfortable silence. Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and touch, but Castiel still isn’t there. He tucks his hands under his head instead. “Cas?”

“Yes, Dean,” his reply comes low and smooth and assured, like Dean could ask him _anything_ and he’d be fine with it.

“Meg doesn’t… that’s not what she thinks of you, is it? I mean, I know she ain’t home a lot, but I always thought you guys… you know, were good.”

It’s Cas’ turn to pause, and Dean can almost feel him weighing his options, deciding how real, how bold he wants to be. If he knows Castiel, the man’s gotten up from his favorite chair to pace, probably even walked outside where he can be sure the boys won’t wake up and overhear him. Across the line, Castiel clears his throat. “What Jack said is not inaccurate,” he answers finally.

“Damn. That’s fucking sad, Cas.” Dean flips onto his back and lifts the phone onto his stomach. “Are you… what do you think of that?”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life,” Castiel replies softly. “And Meg does much for us. But sometimes…” Dean hears a rustling, and possibly even the sound of a sniffle, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask about it. “Dean, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” Castiel’s hanging up before Dean can even reply, and his first thought is that it’s strange to be hung up on over a smartphone. He’s feeling a little sleep-hazy anyway, thanks to his medication, but after rolling over and clicking off the light, he comes back to the phone. Opening the text message string, he sends one more message before deleting them all so that Jack can’t pry.

 

**_Me too._ **

***

Jack’s in his own bed when Dean wakes the next morning, dead to the world and snoring like a chainsaw so obnoxiously that if Dean were better with technology, he’d steal his phone and record it for blackmail. But he’s really not, so instead, he puts his usual pot of coffee on, takes his pills and gets ready to get down to business. He’s feeling a bit off this morning- slightly nauseous and more achy than usual, but he forces down some toast and hopes that if he tells himself he’s fine enough times it’ll actually start to feel true. He throws on a paint-splattered t-shirt and jeans before heading out the door, pausing and backtracking to grab a flannel when he feels how chilly it still is outside.

He takes the one he’d left on the makeshift coat rack (really only several wide nails in a row hammered directly into the garage wall), and since Jack’s jacket is hanging right next to it, it’s hard for him _not_ to notice the bulge in the pocket and the baggie sticking out. It’s weed. Quite a bit of it, if Dean’s meager experience with the stuff is anything to go on. He shakes his head and looks over at Jack’s sleeping face. He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating what to do. In the end, he stashes the weed in a box atop some of the garage’s built-in cabinets and pushes it out of sight. He’ll deal with Jack later, when the teenager less resembles the undead.

Some mornings on the coast are like this, briskly cool and with a cutting breeze, even during midsummer in Southern California. Dean pees over the side of the cliff like he does every morning and takes a few moments to just relax and breathe in the fresh, crisp air. The sun is barely up over the horizon and if Dean closes his eyes, it’s fairly easy to pretend that all is right in his world.

But one can’t live with their eyes closed. He opens them, grabs his tools and gets to work. The entire inside of the house has been gutted, and he’s hoping to finish taking out the drywall today so that he can bring down the frame. His progress has been slow but steady and he’s trying not to focus on how much faster things would be going if Jack would just get up off his ass and help. He’s _got_ to find a way to motivate him. Dean muses on that as he swings the sledgehammer, putting several holes into the wall before going back and muscling the drywall out with a crowbar. He’s carrying a load of debris out to the dumpster when Castiel’s car pulls into the paver-stone driveway. The sun is fully up now but the coast is a bit hazy this morning, overcast and still chilly. Despite all that, Dean’s flushed from his work and has already shed his flannel. He knows he’s a bit on the skinny side as of late, thanks to his cancer-dampened appetite, but he’s still got muscles, and he doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyes flash to his exposed arms. Internally, he can’t help smirking a bit at his ex’s reaction to his body, and he turns and flexes intentionally as he dumps what he’s carrying into the trash.

Castiel’s mouth is parted slightly when Dean turns back around, though to his credit he recovers almost instantly, raising a picnic basket and explaining that it’s lunch for him and Jack.

“Lunch? It’s not even breakfast,” Dean teases, and Castiel shoots him a look before putting the basket down and moving inside the house. With only the wood frame remaining of the roof, the light streams right in to light up Castiel and the dusty air around him like he’s some kind of angel.

“I dreamt about your house last night,” Castiel admits, his arm curling around a post on the far wall as he gazes out over the ocean.

“Oh, yea?” Just to give his hands something to do, Dean picks up the sledgehammer and shifts it from hand to hand. “Finished or unfinished?”

“It was perfect, Dean… Amazing, down to the last detail. It was so real.” He shakes his head, letting go of the post to wander back into the space that used to be their bedroom and in which Dean is now demolishing the last of their shared memories. Dean follows and doesn’t bother to be cautious about personal space between them. He picks a rogue paint chip off of Castiel’s shoulder that’s somehow settled there. The curl of hair behind his ear is _very_ distracting, and Dean forces himself to pull back.

He clears his throat. “Didn’t you once dream you could lick people well?”

Castiel startles for a moment, though whether it’s at the memory or Dean’s touch it’s hard to tell, but then he laughs. “That wasn’t a dream, that was Jack,” he says with a smile. 

“Oh, right.” Dean remembers now, and he watches Castiel closely as he leans back against one of the few remaining sections of solid wall. “That nasty ear infection he had. Your tongue around the edge of his ear is what cured him.” He grins. “Can you go in the garage and lick his attitude?”

Tilting his head to the side and looking up at Dean disapprovingly, Castiel sighs. “The antibiotics weren’t working and that is what I believed, Dean.” He turns and faces the ocean again, and there’s a moment of heavy silence between them.

Dean’s torn. It would be simpler to just keep on like this with Cas, to preserve the easy friendship they seemed to have slid into by ignoring everything that’s between them. He likes their little inside jokes. He likes not arguing with Cas. He likes seeing him regularly. He could do that, could walk away like he always does, could take the easy road out. But he’s so tired, so tired of being _sad._ It hurts to see Castiel standing in this space, so close and yet so far. It _hurts,_ and Dean hurts, and he’s so goddamn sick of feeling like this.

“You were wrong about that first year,” he says finally, reflexively bracing for a fight, but Castiel doesn’t even move, just keeps looking out over the ocean.

After a few moments, he responds. “I’ve been wrong a lot in my life,” he murmurs, turning to face Dean and to search his eyes. They stand like that for several moments, just looking at one another, each almost daring the other to make the next move.

“Hindsight,” Dean coughs out eventually, stepping back slightly and clearing his throat. “S’like foresight, but without a future.” He offers Castiel a sad smile, which is returned in kind.

Something seems to shift in Castiel then, and he draws himself up a little straighter to look around. “I have three hours before I have to go and get the kids. Where will I be most useful?”

Dean can’t help himself, waggling his eyebrows as he replies, “With your hands or your tongue?”

Castiel shoves him and grabs the sledgehammer away as he stumbles. “You’re not well.”

Dean drops his head, not willing to risk Cas seeing in his eyes just how closely that joke hit to home. Instead, he motions to the wall he’d been working on before Castiel drove up, grabbing the crowbar and pulling off some more drywall via an already-made hole.

Castiel’s fingers flex on the handle of the tool. “I just hit it?”

Nodding, Dean adds, “Hit it as hard as you can _—_ that’s it!” He cheers as Castiel takes out a giant chunk, swallowing the lump in his throat as he realizes they’re destroying the section of wall that used to display their wedding photos. He slots his crowbar into the hole Castiel just made and pulls. The wall comes away easily.

***

_Three hours later..._

“I should go,” Castiel declares with a yawn, removing the flannel he’d appropriated from Dean to cover his nice clothing. He makes his way to the front of the house and hangs it up on a nail next to the empty space that once was a front door. Dean forces down his reaction to seeing Cas taking off _his_ clothes in _his_ space in favor of focusing on the high of being unexpectedly ahead of schedule. Well, ahead of his own expectations for the day, anyway. For a project that’s been fifteen years in the making, he’s not sure anything can exactly be labeled “ahead of schedule” anymore. But thanks to Castiel’s hands, they’d managed to do almost twice the work Dean would have accomplished on his own, putting Dean within spitting distance of pulling down the frame and calling demolition finished. The ache in his back that’s slowly becoming more persistent, more difficult to ignore, is there to remind him that he needs to work as quickly as possible and accept all the help he can get. He’s suddenly glad that he reached out to Garth, making a mental note to follow up with him soon.

As Castiel steps out of what remains of the house, Jack wanders sleepily out of the garage, texting on his phone and with his earbuds wrapped around his neck. The sun is out in full force now, the heat of midday having burned off the low-hanging misty fog of the morning. Dean leans on a stud and watches as Castiel grabs their son by the chin and kisses the side of his head. “The boys have a soccer game later. They asked if you’d go watch,” he says softly. Jack just shakes him off and drifts away without answering, flopping down on the lounge chair he seems to like so much and tapping away at his screen. Castiel wipes a palm over his face and lifts his hands, dropping them to his sides in exasperation as he stomps off to his car.

“Cas!” Dean calls after him, but he’s interrupted by another car pulling up and an unfamiliar man getting out, calling his name. Castiel waves him off anyway.

“Dean Winchester?” The man is older, balding, but smartly dressed in a button-down shirt and tie, sporting a badge that identifies him as a city employee clipped to his breast pocket. He’s holding a clipboard and making his way determinedly towards him.

Dean nods distractedly as he watches Castiel pull away, annoyed at the missed opportunity to thank him, to tell him he was glad he came, to ask if he’d like to come back. To tell him that he needed… more help with the house. He also can’t help but take note that Jack crosses the yard back to the garage as soon as Castiel is gone.

The unfamiliar man strides up to where Dean is standing just inside the house. “Mr. Winchester. Zach Adler, city inspector.”

“Ugh, I’ve been dreading you,” Dean replies. “Hi, Zach.”

The inspector peers around. He’s not careful like Garth was, there’s no benefit of the doubt to be given for Dean this time. Despite the fact that he can’t even see inside the garage from where they’re standing, Zach Adler is confident and his voice has a touch of accusatory arrogance when he reads off of his notepad. “You have an unenclosed toilet in proximity to a kitchen.”

“A violation?”

“Oh yes.”

“Uh huh… And if I enclose it?”

“An exhaust system or window is code.”

Jack appears out of nowhere in Dean’s peripheral vision, the angry storm that was present in his eyes the day Dean picked him up from Cas’ back again and raging in full force. “Where is it?” His voice isn’t just demanding, it’s anxious, worried.

 _Interesting,_ Dean thinks.

Raising his eyebrows, he avoids Jack’s question completely. “Friend of yours is here,” he says, motioning to the city inspector.

Throwing a quick forced smile at the inspector, Jack quickly turns his attention back to Dean and starts to rant. “Did you go through my jacket? I want it back, where’d you put it?”

Dean just acts as if he can’t hear him, wiggling his finger at the inspector and musing out loud, “I think I may have a solution.” He picks up his chainsaw and takes off for the garage, followed closely behind by his code-enforcing visitor and a very angry Jack. The door meant for a car is wide open, so they all walk right in. Jack hasn’t stopped bitching for a moment.

“Where’d you hide it? You are unbelievable, do you know that?” Dean heads for the back of the garage, grabbing and dragging an old tall wooden armoire away from the wall. He opens it and pulls out all of the hanging clothes, thrusting them into Jack’s arms without comment.

“Where is it? What, did you put it in these shirts? Just tell me where it is, I’ll look for it myself, would you stop?”

Dean tips the armoire over to the ground and fires up the chainsaw, slicing a big hole through the back and bottom of the sturdy piece of furniture. Jack’s yelling is so loud that it’s still somewhat audible over the roar of the chainsaw and Dean has half a mind to leave it running, just to drown him out, but he clicks it off. That would probably be another citation.

“I wanna know where it is, _now_! You’ve got no right going through my things, that’s an invasion of privacy.”

Heaving the heavy piece back upright, he slots it over the toilet and opens it up with a flourish. “Doors,” he declares proudly.

“I _need_ that back,” Jack pleads, so furious that he’s spitting with every word coming out of his mouth. His chest is heaving and he’s clenching his fists, but Dean isn’t about to play this game.

For his part, Zach Adler seems like he’s regretting every life choice he’s ever made that’s led him to be stuck in this garage with the two of them. “I hate to ask about the window,” he says hesitantly. Dean chews his lip and holds up a finger.

Before he can pull to start the chainsaw again, Jack gets right up in his face, looking him in the eyes and grabbing the chainsaw blade.

“ _Where_ is it?”

“I flushed it down the toilet,” Dean replies matter-of-factly.

“NO!” Jack throws up his hands and grabs his hair, so Dean seizes the opportunity and cranks the chainsaw to life. His son is still ranting, but it’s all drowned out again by the noise. Dean swiftly cuts a hole straight through the back of the armoire and the exterior wall of the garage, creating a rough square that he punches out with his own hand.

“There,” he says, gesturing pointedly for the inspector.

Jack’s pacing back and forth, and he gets up in Dean’s face again as soon as he puts the chainsaw down. “If I had a gun, I swear to god I’d kill you. What’s in my jacket is none of your _fucking_ business.”

“Look, I’d say you’re in compliance,” Adler interjects, putting his hands up and backing towards the door.

“Good,” Dean replies, glaring at Jack. “I hope this makes the pain in the ass that called you happy.”

“You and me both,” the inspector calls over his shoulder as he beelines for his car.

“BYE,” Jack yells obnoxiously after him.

Once he’s sure the inspector is gone, Dean turns back to Jack, and it’s his turn to get up in his face, though Jack doesn’t back down in the least. He pokes his finger in the middle of Jack’s chest. “Now you listen. Everything about you is my business. What you smoke, what you sniff, what you swallow. It’s all my business.”

Considering he’s basically been full-on yelling for the last ten minutes straight, Dean’s pretty confident at this point that Jack’s gotta be worn down, that he can’t have much more in him, but he’s a teenager and he rallies. He surprises Dean by pushing his shoulders and getting even louder as he screams, “I’ve been using since I was twelve! You’re all so unbelievably stupid, do you know that? You didn’t give a shit about anything I did up until now.”

That proclamation actually draws Dean up short, cutting him to the core, but he works hard not to let it show on his face. He can tell Jack’s about to keep hollering at him so he cuts him off by yelling back first. “I’ll apologize for _everything_ but today! _Today_ I give a shit.”

“Yea? You’re too fucking late.”

Jack moves to storm past him, obviously intending to stomp off to wherever he goes but Dean stops him and hands him a pair of leather gloves. “These are for you.”

“Yea?” Jack snorts, and his tone ventures into almost daring. “You can’t make me do a damn thing.”

Working hard to control his own tone and volume, Dean tries to change tack. “Sit down,” he suggests, motioning to Jack’s bed.

“No,” Jack replies, and bodily shoves Dean as he tries to push past. In return, Dean grabs his shoulders and wrestles him down to the bed.

“Sit _down_ ! JAAACK!” He roars Jacks name, his frustration and anger and pain at the entire situation, what he’s built for himself, for Jack - this is _his_ fault. It’s his fault Jack is like this, and he’s gotta fix it. Jack attempts to stand and Dean pushes him down so firmly by the shoulders, he bounces on the mattress.

“That’s child abuse!” Jack screeches, “I’ll call the cops, you’re in big shit now. People go to prison for what you just did to me!” Dean stalks away without reply, reaching up to grab the handle for the big garage door and sending it down creaking and protesting to slam on the ground. He takes a moment to breathe before turning around.

When he does, Jack is still sitting on the bed, breathing hard and staring at him with wide eyes. “You can’t touch me,” he grunts.

Dean licks his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. He should have told Jack ages ago, should have let him in. Should have _helped_ him be something better than his own pain, his own mistakes, his own father’s misery handed down. He takes a deep breath and begins. “My dad used to play this game. I never really even understood what it was until after he was gone.”

It’s obvious that Jack isn’t listening yet. As soon as Dean breaks for a breath, he’s interrupting. “I was holding for somebody else, it wasn’t even mine.”

He continues on, opting to ignore Jack’s comments. “The _game_ was to make me smaller than he was. Smaller, always smaller. No matter what. He could be almost invisible as a human being, but I still had to be smaller. So like, if I got good grades in school then I was a pussy for not playing football. Or if I cut my hair for him, it was never short enough, or if I _shaved_ my head, then I looked like a psycho. I never won the game _—never_. And if he couldn’t make me smaller with words…” Dean shakes his head, and sinks into a lawn chair Jack must have dragged inside. He lets his words hang in the air between them for a moment.

“I’ll have to pay him back,” Jack says quietly.

Going from his chair down onto his knees, Dean shuffles forward until he’s in front of his son. Laying his hands over where Jack’s are folded in his lap, he looks up into his eyes and says very seriously, “Jack, I won’t ever hit you. Ever. I don’t want you smaller, I want you to be happy. You’re not. Not here with me, not home with your dad, not alone, not anywhere. You’re what I was most of my life, Jack. I see it in your eyes, in your sleep, in your answer to everything. You’re barely alive.”

Jack’s eyes look back, but they’re glassy and dull. “I’m not even listening.”

Dean sits back on his heels. He takes a deep breath. _Let him in. Break this cycle. Be something better._ “You know what’s great, Jack?” He pauses long enough for Jack to raise his eyebrows. “There’s _nothing_ in this world that can’t be changed, if you care about it enough to find a way. And change… it can be so constant that you don’t even feel the difference until there is one. It can be _so_ slow that you don’t even know that your life is better, or worse until it is. Or it can just blow you away, make you something different in an instant. It happened to me.” Dean picks up Jack’s hand and squeezes it. “Build this house with me. _Come on_.”

He doesn’t wait for Jack to reply, just gets to his feet quietly, scoops up the chainsaw and heads out the side door. He pauses, just out of sight but within earshot. If he strains his neck, he can peek around the corner to see Jack still sitting on the bed.

“Fuck,” Jack whispers, and Dean sees him roughly wipe some falling tears away.

He leaves him to it.

Under the pretense of appearing unaffected, Dean starts the chainsaw right away, running it through some of the siding until the pieces fall to the ground. He tries to continue, tries to push through it, but his chest and back _ache,_ and his breath is short. Even his vision is swimming a bit, similar to the way it had after his meltdown at DMC. He cuts the chainsaw and drops to his knees, bracing his hands on the floor while he tries to take a few deep breaths. It’s hard, it feels like no matter how deeply he sucks air in, his lungs just don’t fill properly. The pain in his back stabs outward, something it didn’t used to do. His stomach turns and twists and Dean blinks back the tears that fill his eyes. He wishes Castiel were here with him, or that he had anyone who cared enough to sit next to him and hold his hand. His dad would have whooped his ass for even thinking a thing like that, but clearly, that’s no marker Dean should be using to determine _anything_ about his life.

After a few moments of rest, his symptoms do abate. He pulls out and dry swallows one of the narcotic pills he’d jammed in his pocket earlier, something he started doing recently in anticipation of an event like this. Not that he thought he’d need it so damn soon. Shakily, Dean gets to his feet. He spies the picnic basket Castiel had left for him and limps his way over to it slowly. Upon opening it up, he finds several juice bottles laid over ice packs. His eyes start to well up again with how grateful he is, how goddamn smart and thoughtful Castiel _still_ is to him, even after all these years of putting up with Dean’s bullshit stubbornness and crappy communication. _He deserves so much better than me,_ he thinks as he downs the first juice. The fluid and sugar re-energize him, and he wipes his tears along with the juice on his mouth, starting the chainsaw up again and determinedly getting back to work. _Time to tear it down._

***

For all that he’s usually an instant-gratification kind of man, Dean can be patient when he needs to be. When he knows that something is worth the wait. And so that’s what he does, he waits, despite the fact that Jack doesn’t emerge from the garage for hours. The inside of the house is completely gutted now, save for like, two support beams that would bring down the entire frame on top of him if they were cut. He’s decided to bring it down from the outside; to cut the last of the drywall, insulation, and siding away from the exterior walls, then separate the sides of the house from each other and push them over.

_This is it._

Running the chainsaw through the last threads that are holding his old house, his old _life,_ upright is surprisingly as anxiety-inducing as it is cathartic. Dean’s been waiting for this moment for _so_ long, that it’s no surprise to find he’s built it up in his mind to be so much more than it is. _It’s just wood, plaster and paint,_ he tells himself, and even as the words pass through his mind, he knows they aren’t true. This house is every mistake, every misstep, every reminder of each one of his failures as a son, a husband, a father. It’s a multi-generational legacy of pain and hurt and _disappointment,_ and Dean is about to raze it to the ground. _If only life itself were so easy to tear down and build back up,_ he thinks. _If only._ The chainsaw roars and spits shards of wood back at him in protest as Dean takes each one of his final cuts to the ground.

Once he’s finished separating the last of the frame on the right side of the house, he stops to breathe and center himself by watching the ocean glimmer beneath the late-afternoon sun for a few minutes. He drinks some more of the juice Cas brought, and it’s bright and soothing in his throat. He’s got his face turned up to the warmth and his eyes closed when Jack’s voice breaks the silence.

“I’ll have to pay back what you flushed down the toilet,” he announces, a twinge of annoyance still present in his voice, but he doesn’t seem angry anymore. At least, he’s not gritting his teeth or narrowing his eyes or clenching his fists. No, sure enough, when Dean turns to look, Jack is just standing there, quietly strapping his gloves on like he’s done it every day without protest. He looks up at Dean and he’s calm when he demands, “I want ten dollars an hour, then I’m done.”

Dean nods slowly, stooping down to pick up his sledgehammer, the same one Cas had used earlier. He hands it over immediately to Jack and holds eye contact while he gestures to the frame of the old house. “This all has to come down before we can start again.” Jack takes the tool and looks at Dean hesitantly. “Knock it down,” he encourages, smiling softly as he watches Jack take his first, tentative swing. When the metal head connects with what’s left of the exterior wall, Dean’s pleased to see Jack’s eyes light up, inwardly cheering as his stubborn son excitedly pulls back to swing again, and again.

Once Jack’s set and busy Dean looks around for something blunt and heavy of his own, locating another sledgehammer and returning to his place at Jack’s side to join him. More and more siding falls away each time they connect, and Dean’s _doing it,_ he’s actually doing it, here with Jack. As the wall becomes more and more unstable, he’s seized suddenly with the _need_ to impress upon Jack what a big moment this is, how much it _matters,_ and yet his tongue ties in his mouth, thick and useless. He hears his father’s voice in his head, chiding him for being so emotional, so weak, so pathetic. “ _Buck up. Be a man. It’s just a house.”_ Dean pauses in his next swing before hauling back and hitting twice as hard. For the first time in his life his father’s criticism, his _hate,_ fuels Dean instead of shutting him down. _It’s not just a house,_ he thinks angrily. _It’s you. It’s me. It’s everything you took from me, everything you made me into._ And just like that, his mouth opens and the words he’s been searching for tumble out with ease, his voice raised slightly so he can be heard over the construction noise.

“I have _hated_ this house from the moment my dad put it in my name.” Dean doesn’t stop swinging, words punctuated with the sounds of his hammer colliding with siding and wood. “Almost _twenty years_ of hating what you live in… hating what you _are._ ” The metal head bursts through a weak section then, and Dean pulls it free with a flourish. “This is the end of it, Jack,” he says, pausing so that he can look Jack in the eyes. “I’m finally going to build something of my own, something I can be proud to give you.”

Jack’s still unimpressed, but that doesn’t matter to Dean. “Don’t, I don’t want it,” he says, stopping to wipe sweat from his brow and lean on the handle of his hammer.

“Fine,” Dean shrugs, testing the give of the frame by giving it a light push. “You can do whatever you want with it. All I want is for you to remember that we built a house together.”

“We haven’t built shit,” Jack snorts. “You’re just tearing your father down.”

That gets Dean’s attention, and he turns to face Jack with a grin. “Try it, it feels good,” he replies.

By some unspoken agreement, they ready their tools and double down on their efforts, aiming for the studs and weakening the resolve of the house by the minute. Within the next two or three swings, the frame is creaking and leaning, and then it’s falling. The entire front portion of the frame goes with it, tilting diagonally and melting dramatically to the ground. Dean roars and even Jack lets out a yelp of victory as it all goes crashing down, siding and all. “Come on, after you,” Dean urges, stepping onto the pile and stomping it down for good. He swings at the remaining walls and Jack joins him without a single complaint or sarcastic comment, heaving his sledgehammer into the heap and jumping on it with glee. His heavy black boots wreak havoc on anything they touch, flattening the debris as far as it’ll go. Dean closes his eyes and listens to Jack whoop and smash. It’s the best feeling.

***

Demolition moves quickly from there. The rest of the walls come down just as easily, and Jack actually seems into the work. Soon enough the old house is reduced to nothing more than a pile of trash, and the two of them work together to clear it, filling the empty space in their rented dumpster completely and then some. Dean makes a note to call and have it switched out tomorrow. He and Jack are actually a pretty good team, and to Dean’s surprise, Jack doesn’t slack off or try to stretch the work out so that he ends up doing as little as possible. Dean figures the quickest way to ending _that_ small miracle would be to point out that he’s noticed, so he keeps his pride to himself. They finish the clean up so fast that Dean pushes them forward to reframe the foundation before the sun sets. They don’t quite make it, and in fact, end up working long past dark with only a spotlight mounted on the roof of the garage to light their way. But by the time they fall into bed, sweaty and unshowered and too wrecked to even bother with dinner, the new wooden foundation is laid. Dean falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/1QZgYvD)

That smile lasts all the way through the first rays of sun piercing up through the horizon, which Dean watches blissfully from his old lawn chair placed in the center of the new, elevated foundation as he sips on a cup of coffee. The chair has to balance on the spaced boards, but it’s nice, poetic even. The pieces for the frame and the equipment they’ll need to hoist and secure them are delivered before the sun is even fully up, right on schedule, and Dean signs for them before returning to his patch of morning sun. A few minutes after the flatbed rolls away, Jack stumbles out of the open garage all on his own, yawning and squinting and holding a towel.  
  
“Morning,” Dean offers with a smile. “You’re up early.”

Jack just nods and yawns again, but he doesn’t snark off, doesn’t roll his eyes or complain. He does jerk his head towards Lisa and Claire’s house and Dean raises his mug in tacit acknowledgment. _Whatever makes him happy,_ he thinks, not caring to start off the second day of their tentative truce with an argument. _Nothing wrong with my shower, though._ In fact… he lifts an arm up to sniff and makes a face. _Yikes._ Praying the hot water isn’t on the fritz again this morning, he grabs his own shower supplies and hops in. When the hot water hits his back, Dean can’t help but groan. His muscles are the kind of sore that comes after a hard but fulfilling day’s work, but unfortunately, they aren’t the only thing paining him. By the time he shuffles out and moves on to struggling with his clothes, it’s become painfully clear that he’s going to need a pain pill and a rest before any more work gets done today. With reluctant resignation, he downs one and drops the bottle onto the nightstand where it spins and clatters to its side. Pushing his hands across the quilt, Dean gingerly lays himself down on the bed and curls up on his side. _Just a few minutes,_ he thinks. _Just until the medication kicks in._ With the garage door up and a soft, warm breeze blowing over him, even Dean’s stubborn brain doesn’t take much convincing to let himself relax.

He’s almost full-on unconscious, complete with drool when the sound of an engine pulling up just outside the garage jolts him back to reality. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals Castiel and the twins piling out of the car, the boys running straight off to do whatever it is young boys do while Castiel sets his sights on Dean. He does his best to blink the sleep from his eyes as his body protests his decision to try and sit up. His heart jumps into his throat when he realizes the pills are still perfectly visible on his nightstand, and he sweeps them quickly into the drawer. _Not yet._  

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him softly, and Dean looks up at him, too tired and sore to even attempt to hide the mess of feelings running through his head. Cas looks as good as the day they met; his hair is ruffled and wild, he’s got a dark layer of stubble gracing his chin, and his perpetually clean and pressed button down is tucked neatly into his pants but rolled up to his elbows and opened at the collar to the second button. Sure, there might be a few more lines around the corners of his eyes and across his forehead, but Cas wears _them,_ not the other way around. Dean spares a moment to wonder what he’ll look like when he’s fifty, seventy, even ninety, knowing Cas and his ridiculous obsession with healthy foods and exercise. His heart aches that he won’t be around to see because he’s pretty sure Castiel will never _not_ be beautiful to him.

He reaches up and closes his hand around his ex-husband’s wrist, pulling him down to sit beside him on the bed. Castiel goes easily, for once disregarding any pretense of personal space and letting their thighs press together. “Rough morning,” Dean mutters, and his voice is almost as gravely and low as Cas’ usually is. In response, he gets Castiel’s patented, curious little head tilt.

“Is it your back? Can I do anything?” His voice is soft and casual as his hands go to the hem of Dean’s shirt, lifting it up a few inches and allowing his fingers to skate across Dean’s sleep-warm skin. “I could run to the pharmacy, or I have some Demerol at home.”

“I, uh… I took something. I’m fine,” Dean replies dismissively, regretting it immediately when Castiel’s hands fall away and return to his own lap. He sighs and leans forward to stand up, bracing himself on his own knees but still unable to make the transition to vertical.

Castiel makes an aborted attempt to reach for him, retracting his hand at the last second and clearing his throat. “Do you need help…?”

“No, nope, all good,” Dean insists, pushing down harder and managing to get his ass up off of the mattress, though he has to cut his celebration of success short when he starts tipping to the side and nearly goes right back down, except probably to the floor this time. “YUP, YES, help would be great,” he amends hastily, but Castiel is one step ahead of him, sliding an arm underneath his own and around his back, gripping him as tightly as he ever has.

“Put your arm around me, there,” he says as if that’s something they _do,_ something that isn’t a huge freaking deal, to Dean at least.

When Dean’s finally upright and steady, he keeps his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, because hell, he’s already here, and Castiel is hard in all the ways he remembers, but he’s also warm and he smells like oak and cinnamon and _home, he still smells like that, fuck me._ He stares a moment too long into Castiel’s eyes before clearing his throat and nodding his head towards the worksite.

“We’d better…”

“Oh,” Castiel remarks as if he just remembered something important. “I brought the boys,” he announces, as if their shrieks and laughter just outside the thin garage walls weren’t a dead giveaway. “I kind of told them that maybe they could do something. I really wanted to come, and they really wanted to be with me.”

Dean has to bite back a smile. “I’m sure I can find something that won’t kill them.”

“Or wound, Dean. Let them keep their eyes and fingers.”

At the edge of the garage, Dean stops and risks that _way_ too close eye contact again. “You’re a good father, Cas,” he murmurs. Castiel opens his mouth to reply, and his eyes flick down to Dean’s lips, not that Dean’s going to admit he notices. The air between them turns just a little more charged, just a bit too heavy, and Castiel’s fingers come up to graze his chest over his shirt.

Which is, of course, the moment they’re interrupted by the door to Lisa’s house banging open and Claire bouncing out followed closely behind by Jack. Castiel’s attention is ( _thankfully?)_ diverted as well, his blue eyes narrowing as he takes in his son with Claire. “Do _both_ of them have wet hair…?” Dean shrugs and hides a grin.

“Lighten up, Cas, she’s good for him,” he replies as the two of them move in unison out into the sun, still pressed together from shoulder to hip. Castiel only lets go after getting a silent eyebrow raise from Jack but not before checking if Dean is okay to stand on his own. “Fine, sweetheart,” he replies without thinking, and the blush that springs up on Castiel’s face stains his tanned skin all the way down his neck.

The twins pick that opportune moment to race through their little circle of dysfunction, yelling about how the house is “JUST LIKE GIANT LEGOS, DEAN,” and Dean laughs heartily as he stretches.

“JACK!” Dean and Castiel watch as the smaller of the two otherwise almost-identical kids ( _Ryan?_ Dean’s pretty sure that one is Ryan) barrels into Jack, throwing his arms around him and hanging there.

Caught off guard, Jack hugs back awkwardly. “What was that for?”

“Your dad said I should,” he admits without any trace of shame. “I would have anyway, though.” He turns to Claire and demands, “Who are you?”

Not missing a beat, Claire shoots back, “Who are _you_?”

“I’m his brother,” maybe-Ryan replies confidently.

Claire takes his hand and scoops a plastic ball up off of her front lawn. “I’m his friend,” she says with a smile, leading him off to toss the toy around.

“Cas said we could build a house,” not-Ryan chimes in, and Dean’s _gotta_ learn these fucking kids’ names if they’re going to be hanging around. It’s not their fault their mother is a giant—“Can we Dean?” A little hand tugs at his sleeve.

Amused, Dean offers up the shovel he’s been leaning on. “Is this your first one?” Not-Ryan nods vigorously, and Dean gives him a rundown of what they’re going to do today. He’s mainly stalling though, while he listens to Cas interact politely but suspiciously with Claire.

“Thanks for letting him use your shower,” Castiel is saying as Claire shakes his hand.

“He’s got a standing invitation,” she replies brightly, and Dean can almost see Castiel getting sucked into her orbit against his will. Claire just has that effect on people, he’s noticed, and it makes him happy to see all of _his_ people getting along. When he looks over, Jack’s crouched alongside Ryan.

“So you wanna build a house?” His smile is the most genuine Dean’s seen on him in years, and it cracks something painful open in Dean’s chest, so much so that he has to blink back tears.

Ryan tosses the ball in his hand a few times before nodding. “Think it’ll stay up?”

“I don’t know,” Jack replies, standing and offering his hand to the younger boy. “Guess we’ll find out.”

***

Castiel and the boys come every day after that, and so does Claire. They work through blazing sun and heat, driving rain, stiff breezes and any other assortment of weather that happens along. Dean teaches Jack how to use the circular saw, teaches Castiel how to bolt corners of beams together. He teaches everyone how to use a pulley system to raise the giant pre-made pieces of the main frame, Claire standing in the middle and guiding the center support beam into place as it goes up. Most days they get to work around sunrise and break for the night long after sundown. The boys take naps on Dean’s bed occasionally when they’re too worn out to go on, and Dean learns to pre-medicate every morning before trying to get to work. There’s no getting around the fact that his pain is slowly getting worse, his tolerance for physical work slowly chipping away, but he’s Dean Winchester, and he’s not a quitter, so he powers through it.

It’s both wonderful and painful to be around Castiel so much. Their moment outside the garage hasn’t replicated as of yet, but generally speaking, they’re freer with their touches, less careful about their personal space. Dean watches Castiel climb into the rafters, straddling an unfinished beam to bolt it into place properly against another, and it’s like watching his own fantasy come to life in front of him. Just like in his dreams the wind tears through Castiel’s hair and the sun lights him up from above, _just_ like a halo. Dean stares up at him in awe, and Castiel must feel his eyes because he looks down and grins. His time in the sun has been good to him, his skin darkening and making him glow all on his own, no sun-halo needed, and Dean has to physically restrain himself from scaling the ladder and cupping Castiel’s face in his hands and just taking back what they should have had all along.

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/Sv5yZ0X)

 

But Castiel’s step-kids are running around down here, and they’ve got a good thing going the way things are. _This doesn’t change anything,_ not between them. It’s not a new thing for him to pine away for Cas, to wish for something that’s just out of reach. Castiel still left him, _is_ still married to someone else. Best for Dean to keep his feet on the ground and be thankful for what he has. But there’s a spike of irritation growing that wasn’t present before, a spark of resentment that maybe he feels Castiel shouldn’t get to have his cake and eat it too.

It’s sunset one evening, and they’re all tired after a long day of construction, winding down a bit early for the night. Castiel is leaning against one of the support pillars and staring up through the trellis roof. Almost the entire frame is complete now, and Dean’s the only one not ready to pack it in, still steadily measuring and cutting and hoping he can get the last beams up before true night sets in. But Castiel seems to have other plans, wandering over to the speakers that were blasting Led Zeppelin earlier that day and scrolling through the music collection on Jack’s phone.

“Hey, Cas?” Ryan pops up out of nowhere. “Cas, did you know Dean before you knew mom?”

Lifting his head slightly to glance at Dean, Castiel nods. “Long before,” he offers noncommittally.

But he should have known better, Dean’s far too blunt to play that game. “Tell them how you made me fall in love with you.” He smirks at Cas and earns himself a glare.

Castiel sighs and answers, however reluctant, and even has the decency to not sound _too_ annoyed. “I smiled at him,” he admits.

Dean laughs. “Watch out for the smile, boys! That’s how they get you,” he adds very seriously. Ryan’s eyes go wide as he looks between Dean and Cas, and Dean gets a salute from Collin (aka Not-Ryan, though Dean knows better by now). Dean just shrugs.

“Come on, who’s going to dance with me?” Castiel does his best attempt at a subject change and scrolls faster through Jack’s phone. Then suddenly, he gets unusually excited. “Jack! I can’t believe you have this on here. Do you remember it?” Castiel must press play because the soft sounds of an old [Joni Mitchell song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RtT48aADxpU) start drifting from the speakers.

Jack nods. “You used to rock me to sleep to this.”

With a surprised head tilt, Castiel agrees. “That’s right,” he says, blinking a little. “That’s right.” Taking a deep breath, he looks around. “So, any takers? Dean?”

“Oh no,” Dean refuses, shaking his head and refusing to even look up from the beam he’s measuring. “Work.”

“Me!” Collin screeches over his reply, tearing across the floor and jumping onto Cas’ feet to let himself be spun. After less than a minute he hops off. “That’s enough,” he declares. “I got a lot of work to do.”

Dean huffs a laugh, and Castiel catches him with a side-eye, grabbing his bicep and refusing to take no for an answer, no matter how much Dean grumbles. Cas doesn’t have to know he’s bitchy because he’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up, be so close to him and not try and take things further. But Joni’s still singing and Dean’s using every ounce of his energy to keep himself from overidentifying.

 

_Tears and fears and feeling proud,_

_To say "I love you" right out loud_

 

But just as it always does, the feel of Castiel in his arms, warm and real and perfect, shuts him up and calms him at the same time. He lets Cas slip his arms around his neck, lets him lead them around for a few moments before he succumbs to the music and takes over. Snaking an arm around Cas’ midsection and twining their fingers together, he twists and turns and dips him so low that his leg comes up and his messy hair almost touches the floor. Castiel’s smile is wide and his laughter is _beautiful,_ coiling out and up into the evening air and disappearing into the colorful pink and orange sky.

 

_But now old friends they're acting strange,_

_they shake their heads, they say I've changed._

_Well something's lost, but something's gained_

_In living every day_

 

Dean pulls him up and releases his fingers to cover the side of his face with his hand. They sway and step carefully, eyes locked on each other’s. Dean slowly lets his fingers drift down Castiel’s arm to grab his hand again and lift it up to make him twirl. They come back together like magnets, and it’s almost obscenely intimate. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the twins sitting close together, Ryan’s head on Collin’s shoulder as they watch, Jack standing and leaning on a beam just a few feet behind them before backing away to disappear into the dark.

He should stop, _we should stop,_ he thinks, but Castiel’s chest is pressed to his and besides the fact that he feels so goddamn _right_ in Dean’s arms, _Dean_ isn’t the one treading the line of what’s appropriate here. Castiel’s always been it for him, and why the fuck should he have to be the adult _now_? So they stay and they sway, and eventually, Castiel’s head drops to Dean’s shoulder. He swallows and tightens his arms around Cas’ back, letting his own cheek rest on Cas’ soft, sawdust-infused hair. Dean’s hand comes up to cup the back of Castiel’s head as he watches the sun sink further into the Pacific.

 

_I've looked at life from both sides now,_

_From win and lose, and still somehow..._

_It's life's illusions I recall._

_I really don't know life… I really don’t know life, at all._

 

By the time the song ends, the twins are asleep wrapped up in each other, Claire’s long gone home and Jack is nowhere to be seen.

“I should go,” Castiel whispers into his neck, and Dean nods.  
  
“Yea,” he rasps, as Castiel moves back. His green eyes are heavy-lidded and Cas’ soft pink lips are _right there_ and he can’t... he just can’t bear to be the one to pull away, not again.

Like always, _like always,_ he doesn’t have to be.

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/N3XVvbf)

***

When Castiel’s tail lights turn away at the end of his street, Dean finally abandons all pretense that he’s got anything left in him to give over to construction tonight. He wanders inside the garage and finds Jack attempting to cobble together some semblance of dinner from the cans in Dean’s cabinet and a slightly stale loaf of bread. He closes the main bay door and then comes up behind Jack to peer over his shoulder.

“Looks good,” he says, even though it doesn’t, and Jack snorts as he hands Dean a plate. They eat on their respective beds, and Dean is so exhausted from the day (physically _and_ emotionally) that he hardly tastes it. All the same, the hearty processed food fills his belly and has him sated and ready to pass out before his plate is even empty. Too tired to get up and flick the lights off or return his dish to the sink, he slides it onto the bedside table and lets his eyes drift closed. He’s well into floating away on twilight when Jack’s voice startles him wide awake.

“I took some of your Vicodin.”

Perhaps if Dean hadn’t been halfway to dreamland for that confession, he would have been able to play it a bit more cool. As it is, he’s in no condition for a fight so he simply sighs and heaves himself up to a sitting position across from his son. Rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to wake up, he manages to mumble, “I suspected… why?”

Jack must not have been expecting such a low key, calm response because it takes him a moment to answer. “I like how it feels not to feel,” he finally says, his arms braced on his knees, palms up and open. Just seeing him like that shocks Dean the rest of the way awake. Jack’s body language is more open and honest than he’s ever seen it.

He decides to continue treading carefully and does his best to mimic Jack’s posture. _Open. Honest._ “I know the feeling.”

Jack shifts, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow for a moment before continuing, and this time he poses a question that Dean’s been asking himself for _years_. “How do you become something that you’re not?”

“Guess that depends on what you want to be.”

“I…” Jack shakes his head gently and lifts his hands. He’s at a loss. “Just… what I’m not.”

“And what are you not?” Dean knows he’s starting to push at this point and he can see Jack beginning to get frustrated, but he suspects that for once, it may not be because of him.

“I’m _nothing_ ,” he insists, practically spitting the words at Dean.

“Well, that’s not true.” Dean reaches out to squeeze Jack’s hand briefly and predictably, he pulls away, agitated.

“You see, that’s the thing, though. I am what I say that I am.”

This time, Dean doesn’t contradict him, because obviously, Jack’s not able to hear it right now. That’s okay, Dean knows that feeling well, and there’s no one better to get Jack through it than him. He knows what Jack needs to hear.

“I gave up on you,” Dean voices, waiting for Jack to rip him apart, but _yet again_ he’s surprised.

Shaking his head, Jack adamantly disagrees. “No. No, if you’d given up on me, I’d be in Tahoe right now.”

Dean rolls with it. “What would you be doing there right now?”

“Getting high, I guess.” Jack shrugs, picking at his nails.

“If I asked you to stop, would you?”

Jack pauses long enough to look up and meet Dean’s eyes. “I haven’t used in over two days. I’m trying.”

“I’m proud of you,” Dean replies sincerely, and just like that, Jack hits his limit for this conversation.

“Yea, well, don’t be,” he scoffs, opening Dean’s bedside table drawer and pulling out the narcotics. He tosses them to Dean and then flops back onto his own bed, jamming his earbuds into his ears as he goes. “And hide those… Dem… whatever that new drug is you have. I like it.” Jack’s voice breaks a little at the end there, but Dean’s kind enough to pretend not to notice. He can hear Jack’s music blasting all the way from where he sits but honestly, he hasn’t had this open and authentic of a conversation in years, content be damned, and he’s not ready to stop.

“I put a gun to my father’s head once,” Dean says conversationally, though he’s not sure whether Jack can hear him or not. “You ever think like that? He was passed out, he’d been yelling at my mom over… nothing, I guess. Undercooked meat or whatever. I went to his room, held the barrel right up to his ear, and then I chickened out.” He pauses and reclines back on the bed. “‘Course, it was a BB gun, but still, it would have hurt like hell.”

Jack finally seems to take notice that he hasn’t gone back to bed, pulling one earbud out and snarkily asking, “Are you talking?”

“Oh… uh, I was just thinking about my mom,” Dean replies. “She wouldn’t leave my dad, I could never figure out why. I remember once she made dinner for us wearing sunglasses. It was friggin’ dark outside. And _in_. And nobody said a damn thing about it.” Dean shakes his head.

“Why wouldn’t she just leave?”

Dean shrugs and picks at his quilt. “I think she was terrified to live with him, but uh, maybe even more terrified of life without him.”

“I would have killed him,” Jack asserts confidently. He’s sitting bolt upright now, and actually listening for once. Dean contemplates recording the moment for posterity and briefly laments his lack of a phone.

Out loud he replies with a nod and agrees, “Would have been so much better if you had. Then maybe he wouldn’t have driven drunk. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed my mom in the car crash. And the woman in the other car, hurt a little girl in the backseat, too. You’d have liked your grandmother, Jack. She was pretty cool.” He pauses again, not entirely sure if he wants to continue, but Jack is still focused on him, still listening intently. He reminds Dean so much of when he was younger, back when Dean still believed their modge-podge family had a shot at happily ever after. “I still think about that little girl,” he admits softly. “They couldn’t find her father and her mother was dead.”

Jack scoots forward to the edge of the bed. “You ever wish you’d done it?”

“What, killed my dad?” Jack nods, and Dean smiles, laughs a little, though there’s a note of sadness to it. “I couldn’t. I loved him too much.”

The furrow returns to Jack’s brow. “That’s weird,” he declares, weighing his earbuds in his hand. After a few moments, he shrugs and jams them back in, laying back and closing his eyes.

“Yea, I guess it is,” Dean says with a sigh, assuming he really is talking to himself now as he turns off the light and gets under the covers. “It’s why I could never really blame your Dad for leaving me. Never bring myself to go chasing him down, begging him to come back and let me keep making him miserable. If I was… If I brought him even one ounce of the pain my dad rained down on my mom, I’d _be_ him, transformation complete. A monster of my own making, just like he probably wanted. My mom should have left, and Cas did. How could I ever hold that against him? He’s always just been… better than me.”

Jack’s music turns back on a few minutes after Dean’s silence turns to snores.

***

The next afternoon sees Dean up on the roof again, laying and securing the vertical wooden slats that will turn the roof from “semblance of” to solid. Cas had been up there for a while too, working steadily by his side, but he’d hopped down a half hour or so ago to grill up some burgers. He’s moving around beneath Dean now, setting up on the old picnic table he’d dragged away from the worksite and planted over near the edge of the cliffs, “for the _atmosphere,_ Dean.” Dean had rolled his eyes, but truth be told he kind of likes it out there, thinks maybe he’ll leave it instead of moving it back when the house is complete. Not that he’ll probably have long to enjoy it by then, but he’s not thinking about that right now. Castiel looks serene and happy as he works, so at ease in Dean’s space, as if he never left. It fills Dean with competing feelings of overwhelming desire and equally overwhelming frustration, and as much as he’s enjoying this little pretend-fairytale, the frustration is starting to win out.

“You must have a really great wife,” he overhears Claire say to Cas as they set the table.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I mean, it’s just, you’re here every single day.”

Castiel doesn’t respond right away, and Dean can hear a note of defensiveness enter his voice when he replies. “Well, she’s at work while I’m here.”

Claire seems to realize she’s trodden unknowingly onto dangerous ground, and she keeps her tone light as she lifts her shoulders casually. “I guess that I would just be jealous if I were her.”

The lines on Castiel’s forehead deepen, and he glances up at Dean, who’s become pretty damn skilled at pretending he isn’t listening to other people’s conversations. “Well… she has nothing to worry about. And she’s not the type to worry anyway. Alright, let’s eat. Dean!” He raises his voice to get Dean’s attention. “Dean, lunch.”

Dean raises a hand and pushes himself up off of his knees to rest back against the frame for a moment. He watches Cas serving the kids and lets himself get caught up in the moment, just one more time. _So close,_ he thinks. _Always just out of my reach._ Castiel leans down to kiss Jack on the cheek, a motion their son doesn’t dodge in time and gets a nose covered in mustard for his efforts. Dean smiles, and Castiel happens to look up and catch his eye, the grin on his face spreading when he does. Dean’s chest hurts, and it’s nothing a narcotic is going to take away. He stays on the roof for quite a while longer, watching from what feels like the outside.

***

After lunch, Dean announces that he’s giving the whole crew the afternoon off. To everyone’s shock, Jack offers to take the boys to the movies, and Claire jumps at the chance to go with. Cas gives them enough money for “popcorn, candy, and video games after,” just as Ryan demands, and sends them off with strict instructions not to see anything Rated R. Jack crosses his heart sarcastically, and Castiel sighs.

“Be careful driving,” he warns sternly, but anyone can see that he’s thrilled at Jack’s new and improved behavior. He and Dean stand on the front lawn and watch the herd of kids all ride off together. When they’re out of sight, Dean turns and heads back inside the frame of the new house, Castiel trailing closely behind.

“I should go,” he says reluctantly, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dean breathes deeply, remaining facing towards the ocean and away from Castiel until he gathers his nerve. _It’s now or never,_ he thinks, worried that if he waits any longer, he’ll never get up the courage to do what needs to be done. He turns around and walks forward to lean on the support post nearest Castiel.

“Maybe it would be better if you didn’t come every day,” he starts, making a real attempt at keeping his tone light and casual.

“What? Why? I like being with Jack,” Castiel replies innocently, and _isn’t that the problem right there?_

Dean fidgets. “It’s just, there’s less and less for Ryan and Collin to do, they must be bored, you know.” He turns away and tries to look busy while fiddling with his tools.

“Well I-I know they don’t help much anymore, but they love coming here, Dean.”

Dean swallows heavily and bites the bullet. “But, uh, how much time do they get to spend with their mom?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he folds his arms over his chest. _Uh oh,_ Dean thinks. _I’m still transparent as fuck._ “What is this?” Castiel demands. “You know, Claire thinks something’s up with us, she keeps giving me crap about being away from Meg and now _you’re_ doing it too? No one realizes,” he continues, uncrossing his arms and throwing them up in the air. “She isn’t there! She’s never there. Even when she is, she isn’t. So Dean, if you don’t want me here, or you don’t want Meg’s children here, then… say it. I’ll stop coming. But it won’t be because of Meg, it will be because you told me to. So, say what you need to say because I’m not leaving until I hear it.” His posture goes back to defensive, but he looks away as if he’s sure Dean won’t rise to the challenge of dismissing him.

“I’d rather you not be here,” Dean delivers calmly.

Castiel’s head snaps up, and his eyes are somehow furious and hurt at the same time. “I thought we were helping,” he snips, grabbing his jacket and storming off to his car. When he throws it into reverse and peels out of the driveway, Dean doesn’t try to stop him, though the ache in his chest hasn’t let up the way he thought it would. He doesn’t feel any better, he just feels alone. _I thought I was past this. I guess I was wrong._

Dean returns to his work easily enough, since what else is there for him to do? “Not a perfect day,” he mutters as he bends back over his circular saw to cut some more slats for the roof. He does his level best to shove all thoughts of Castiel from his mind though admittedly, he’s not very successful. He’s just about to fire the power tool back up when the sound of tires screeching in the street steals his attention. He wheels around in time to see Castiel stop reversing his car halfway up the lawn, jumping out and slamming the door angrily almost before the car stops moving. He stomps towards Dean with his face set and his eyes wild, and _uh oh,_ Dean thinks. _Here we go. Peace was nice while it lasted._

But as he gets closer, Dean realizes that the expression on Cas’ face isn’t really anger. It’s confusion and hurt, and maybe even worry.

“What happened?” Dean asks warily.

“Nothing _is_ going on with us, is it?” Castiel demands as he strides purposefully back into the house.

 _Oh. So they’re really going to do this._ Well, Dean’s over making things easy for Castiel. If the man wants to fight, he’s going to have to work for it. Dean plays innocent. “Going on?”

But instead of the sideways glare he’s come to expect when Castiel sees through him (and he always sees through him), Dean’s surprised to get a hand-wringing, nervous version of his ex-husband that he hasn’t seen in years. And honestly, just that small change in demeanor is enough to make Dean sit up and pay attention. It doesn’t look like this is going to be one of their usual fallouts where each of them takes turns flinging blame and everyone walks away hurt and angry. No, Castiel’s got something on his mind, something he’s been stewing over for a while.

“When you came over, after you disappeared for that week, what was that about?”

 _Aha!_ Dean thinks with satisfaction. _Guess Cas isn’t the only one who can read people._ Out loud he replies, “Uh… Jack, mostly.” Castiel raises his eyebrows but doesn’t elaborate and Dean can’t help but let a _bit_ of frustration drift into his tone. “ _What,_ Cas? Just spit it out already.”

“No, it _—_ ugh.” Castiel sighs and paces in a small circle, tugging at his hair in frustration and taking a deep breath before attempting to continue. “What you said, the thing about me being... the most beautiful person, what was that?”

“That was the truth,” Dean says simply, and he means it.

“You’ve never said that before,” Castiel challenges and Dean doesn’t back down from the fierce eye contact he’s getting.

Instead, he shrugs and raises his hands in supplication. “Uh, well, I’ve said a lot of things recently that I’ve never said before.”

Castiel’s not dissuaded. “It sounded like a pickup line.”

“I can’t pick you up,” Dean snorts.

“Because I’m married.”

“You bit my finger,” Dean accuses evasively.

But of course, Castiel persists, because this is Dean’s life, right here, in all its fucked up glory, and he doesn’t get to take the easy route anymore, apparently. “And if I weren’t married?”

“Should we do this?”

“I need to know.”

Dean laughs. “What? What do you need to know? Are you asking if I still love you?” He doesn’t give Castiel a chance to reply, surging forward and grabbing him by the shoulders before answering his own question. “ _Absolutely,_ ” he breathes, and Castiel’s eyes go wide as they lock onto his own. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. Despite my anger, my ego, I was always faithful in my love for you. That I made you doubt it, fuck, Cas. That’s… well, it’s the greatest mistake in a life full of mistakes.” Without asking, he slides his hands around Castiel’s back and draws him close. He goes willingly, his face ending up buried in Dean’s shoulder. “But the truth doesn’t set us free, Cas. I can tell you I love you as many times as you can stand to hear it but all it does, the _only_ thing, is _remind_ us. Love is not enough. It’s not even close.”

With a strangled gasp and wet, reddened eyes Castiel jerks away from him suddenly, his fingertips just barely remaining on Dean’s chest as he tries his best to regain some composure. “I _—_ I’ve gotta…” He makes ambiguous motions towards his car and takes off, this time not looking back.

After Castiel drives away for real this time, Dean throws the towel in on working, chucking his hammer so hard that it makes a dent in the brand new floor, flies across the lawn and almost skids off the edge of the cliff. He’s cranky and in pain from almost head to toe anyway, so he heads inside and downs one of the new, stronger narcotics his doctor recently switched him to and curls up on his bed. He worries that Jack will come home and see him sleeping like a toddler and ask questions, but he’s just too shattered, too hurt, too _spent_ to put on a show anymore. Everything’s getting harder, _everything._ Not just the physical work, but getting up in the morning, doing his basic daily activities, just getting through the goddamn day. And now he’s chased Cas away _again_ , probably for good, and a big part of him wonders, _what is the point?_ For the first time since that day in the hospital with the kind aide and the doctors pointing at bright spots on his scans while speaking gravely with big, complicated words, Dean really understands, _really feels_ the reality that he’s dying.

And that there’s a very good chance now, it’s going to happen before this house gets built.

But Dean still gets out of bed the next morning, still tries. He calls around and manages to outsource a bit of the labor for the roof because he’s not sure morphine and ladders are a great mix, and if he’s going out, it’s not going to be because his dumb ass fell headfirst off of his own roof. Would save him from some awkward conversations, though. Regardless, it’s come time he accepts that he can’t function properly without being medicated pretty much twenty-four-seven, and if he wants to maximize his time with Jack, then being slightly doped up is a small price to pay. Still, he wonders if Jack will notice how much more medication he’s needing these days. Those conversations he’s dreading are threatening to force their way up and out sooner rather than later and Dean just isn’t ready _. How will he ever be?_

He hasn’t heard from Castiel since he watched him disappear in a blur of tears and taillights yesterday afternoon, so to say Dean’s surprised when the side door of the garage opens and in Cas walks would be an understatement. Unfortunately, he’s shirtless and in the middle of shaking his next dose of pain medication into his palm, and this isn’t exactly how he pictured their next meeting going. He feels vulnerable but does his best to put on his cheeriest smile, though even that is looking a little dim around the edges these days.

Likely taking advantage of the pills, Castiel opens with something neutral. “Is your back still bothering you?”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh… yea. Um, I didn’t expect you today.”

Making his way over to Dean’s bed and sitting down like he knows Dean’s too wrung out to contest his welcome, Castiel stares at his hands for several moments before replying. “I kept thinking about what you said, and I hope… I hope you’re trying to make me stay away for my own sake.”

“No,” Dean says honestly, shrugging into one of his flannels but leaving it unbuttoned. “It was actually more for me.”

Castiel just blinks up at him for a moment. “Meg left me,” he blurts out matter-of-factly, as if they’re discussing the weather.

“She... left you?”

Castiel’s focused on him intently now, looking up through his lashes and _fuck he’s stunning_. He licks his lips and Dean knows he’s watching him track the movement. “Yes. She just... left. No fuck you, no goodbye, no ‘Are you in love with Dean?’”

“Uh, I’m not sure... what _did_ she say?”

“Well, I suppose she said, ‘I’ll be in the bedroom.’ I couldn’t walk in there so she... she left.” Castiel stares at him wide-eyed and Dean stares back, and in the end, he has no fucking clue who moves first but just like that Castiel’s across the room and in his arms, his mouth warm and sweet and welcoming Dean home. _Home_.

And Castiel feels just like Dean remembers, time and space and whatever’s come and gone between them be damned. His toned muscles flex under his shirt and _under Dean’s palms_ as he slides his own big hands up to the base of Dean’s skull to cup it and turn his head exactly how he wants to kiss him deeper. His cinnamon-woodsy smell and the feel of days old stubble against Dean’s cheek, the sensation of Cas’ hard, masculine body pushed flush against his own, the softness of his hair and the hard, swelling line of his cock inside his pants, it’s _all so familiar, so overwhelming, so much._

But for all Dean remembers, he soon realizes how much he also _forgot._ He forgot how it feels to be _Cas’._ Because Cas is pushy, he’s demanding, and Dean _forgot_ because this side of Cas is not as much fun when it can’t be harnessed for the bedroom. But Cas hasn’t changed a bit and Dean is _thrilled,_ overcome with the desire to be manhandled, to be possessed and consumed by him, to be drank down and licked into and fucking _held_ like he’s something priceless, something important, because it’s all flooding back with every sincere, eager touch from his Cas.

Somehow they make it to Dean’s bed, collapsing down in a tangle of limbs and tongues and Castiel on top, already grinding down on Dean like he’s thinking about trying to make up for ten years lost in the next couple of minutes alone. His hands and lips feel like they’re everywhere, though Dean vaguely considers that his morphine might be kicking that sensation up a notch, not that he cares one iota. He clutches onto Castiel, takes comfort in his mouth as Cas lets him and just tries to hold on for the ride. One of them gets Castiel’s shirt open and then they’re pressed together, with so much more warmth and skin than Dean’s felt in _years,_ never mind that it’s _CasCasCasCas,_ and he cries out as his eyes fill with tears and spill over. Before he realizes it, he’s got a hand down the back of Castiel’s pants and he’s grabbing a handful of his ass not out of anything overtly sexual but just for something to hold onto, a _prayer_ , a _need_ to keep Castiel close. If Cas were to pull away now, if he were to take his warmth and vanish again, Dean knows, he fucking _knows_ that he wouldn’t make it. He’d shrivel up and die on the spot. His body, his heart; he just can’t take any more and so he holds on, he holds Cas close.

They stay like that for what feels like an endless amount of time, just holding and touching and kissing and relishing the skin-on-skin. Unquestionably they look a debauched mess, and although technically anything censor-worthy is still covered, they’re completely intertwined and with most of their clothes half undone, lips kissed red and swollen and hair fucked beyond belief. Which is of course, the way they’re found when someone decides to go looking for Dean. In retrospect, Dean supposes it could have been worse. It could have been five minutes later.

When the side door creaks open and Jack’s voice fills the garage, Castiel jerks away and goes into full-on panic mode. He does his best to fling himself as far away from Dean as possible and look innocent, and Dean’s never seen him fail at something so miserably. In different circumstances, he’d be rolling with laughter.

“Hey Dad, the electrician needs to _—_ Oh, _whoa._ Uh...” Jack quickly turns away and puts a hand up to shield his face.

Castiel runs a hand through his destroyed hair and wraps the edges of his shirt one over the other. It’s ridiculous, and not convincing in the least. “Uh, your father had a _—_ ” 

“A kink,” Dean offers, not trying very hard at all to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees solemnly. “A kink, in his back.”

Jack smiles and thankfully doesn't appear to be upset or otherwise scarred for life. “The door was open,” he says, pointing to it. “I wouldn’t let Collin or Ryan see you doing this.” Dean and Castiel both have the decency to look abashed, shaking their heads like two chastised teenagers. “Um, so Garth wants to know if we should run another outside line with a switch inside for Christmas lights?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, and Dean has to suppress a shiver at the thoughts the gesture elicits in him. “Garth is your electrician?”

For his sanity, Dean ignores Cas and answers Jack. “Absolutely, tell him to run a separate line. Come Christmastime we’ll pack it so full of lights the neighbors will need sunglasses.” 

Jack looks between them one last time and then thankfully takes his leave without saying anything further. As soon as he’s gone, Castiel rushes over to the door and locks it, returning just as quickly to Dean’s side where he’s now resting up against the headboard, curling up next to him and burying his face in Dean’s chest. “I could die,” he mumbles into Dean’s skin, and the heat of his breath is quickly dissipating whatever weirdness is left hanging in the air from Jack’s awkward interruption. Dean huffs a soft laugh as his fingers find the bottom hem of Castiel’s shirt, sliding his hand underneath and leaving it lay on the warm skin of his back. Castiel raises his head and meets his eyes only a breath away, and Dean’s never wanted anything more. His lips part as he asks softly, “Are you going to kiss me?”

And Dean wants to, _god_ how he wants to, but the pain in his back and the tightness in his chest combined with Jack’s inopportune timing have him feeling like maybe the universe is trying to tell him something. He can’t do this to Castiel, can’t lead him on this way. It’s time to come clean, and let the chips fall where they may. Dean might not survive Castiel walking away again, but it’s not like he’s getting out of this alive anyway, and Cas deserves to know the truth.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and pushes himself up so that he’s sitting properly facing Cas. “It’s uh, it’s not my back that’s killing me,” he admits. Castiel’s familiar furrowed brow and adorably confused head tilt threaten to break his heart. His own tears are already falling as he leans forward to kiss Castiel’s forehead. “Come here,” he whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/g9FVHhr)

Dean knows he’d likely be _heavily_ scorned if he ever admitted that he hadn’t thought this moment would really come. If he’s being honest though, he’s sort of been skating by on the assumption that the whole thing would eventually work itself out by the nature of it. And yea, maybe leaving a couple of handwritten notes in his bedside table just in case he goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up the next morning is cowardly on his part, but on the other hand, why make everyone suffer for longer than they need to? His way at least, every memory they make together is real and untainted. Every moment he and Jack, he and Cas, or the three of them share together is suffused with happiness, joy, and hope instead of fear and sadness. But that was… that was before Cas did what he did. Dean had never intended for Cas to blow up his own life with the expectation that reuniting with Dean was a viable option, but here they are. Not for the first time in their lives, he’s clearly underestimated Castiel and his drive to get what he wants.

And when Castiel decides that he wants something, he goes all in. Whether in loving Dean or leaving him he’s always been that way; definitive and unwavering in his beliefs and convictions of what’s _righteous_ , the existence of his love or lack thereof. Which is why it was so easy for Dean to accept that if Castiel claimed he and Meg were through, then that was the god’s honest truth, at least in Castiel’s own eyes. If he was kissing Dean, then Dean was the only person he wanted to kiss. Declarations of love were redundant; Castiel’s always been a man of action first. In that same vein though, what he’s perpetually struggled with is coping in the face of situations he cannot fix, being made to live with problems he cannot solve. Having to watch someone he loves suffer and being helpless to do anything to stop it has to be high on the list of his least-desired positions to be in. If there’s one thing Castiel despises, it’s being useless and sidelined when the people he cares about are in need. He and Dean have always had that in common.

Knowing all of that, Dean’s more or less prepared for how the revelation of his secret may be received. And just as suspected, Castiel loses it. He soaks one of Dean’s shirts in tears, he screams in anger, he hits Dean in the chest several times and he seems to roll through the five stages of grief right before Dean’s eyes.

Denial. _“No. No, that can’t—that’s not possible.”_

Anger. _“How could you keep this from me, from us?! Fuck you, Dean, you’re a goddamn selfish bastard, do you know that?!”_

Bargaining. _“You just haven’t spoken to the right doctor yet. God, Dean, have you even tried? We will find a different doctor, and we’ll do whatever needs to be done, you’ll see.”_

Depression. _“All this time we’ve wasted… all this time, Dean! We… I’ve been so stupid, so selfish. Dean, I can’t… I don’t want to live this life without you by my side.”_

Acceptance.

It’s not quite so neat and tidy as all that, of course. Castiel becomes so distressed at one point that he vomits into the sink. Dean rubs his back through the subsequent dry heaving and Castiel can’t seem to decide whether he wants to shove him off or latch on and never let go. To Dean’s surprise and utter relief, he eventually chooses the latter. He brushes his teeth with his body pressed to Dean’s chest and his head tucked up under his chin. When they’re back sitting on the bed, Castiel takes a few deep breaths before meeting Dean’s gaze and taking his hands in his own. He still looks devastated and a little bit scared, but his eyes are clear and Dean _knows_ that look.

“Dean,” he begins. “I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through. But I promise I’ll be by your side as you do it. I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not at all ready to give up hope, but I...” He’s forced to pause and clear his throat as a few more tears escape and make their way down his pretty face. “Whatever happens, I’m here. However long or…” He shakes his head and draws in a shaky breath, “I’m in it. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so sorry, Dean,” he blurts out suddenly, lifting his head and blinking at Dean imploringly. “I’m _so_ fucking… my arrogance and pride have kept us apart for all of this time and now we may be out of it. Dean, if you can forgive me, if you’ll _have_ me, I don’t intend to waste another minute. Not one.” Castiel’s grip tightens on his hands as he waits for Dean to reply, and he looks so miserable.

Dean’s own voice is rough and scratchy and threatening to break as he replies. “I’ve always been yours, Cas,” he murmurs. “Jus’ been waitin’ here, hopin’ someday you’d wanna be mine again too.”

A broken half-laugh, half-sob forces its way from Castiel’s throat as he flings himself into Dean’s arms and whispers sadly into the hollow of his neck. “I know you said that love isn’t enough. But it’s all I have, Dean. Please, please let me stay. Let it be enough.”

Despite the heaviness of the moment, Dean can’t help but grin. “Cas, you should really know by now that I say the stupidest shit. Yes. God, yes. Please fucking stay.”

***

Even though he doesn’t understand the extent of what’s going on, Jack has sense enough to stay away and to keep everyone else from bothering them as well. When Castiel’s a bit calmer and has stopped looking like he’s going to have a panic attack if Dean so much as moves more than an inch away, he stands up to stretch and then peeks his head outside the door to find the construction site deserted. Jack, Claire, and the boys are nowhere in sight and Cas’ car is gone. He makes a mental note to reward Jack later for being the best son ever and heads back inside to Cas, making sure to lock the door behind him this time, just in case.

When he turns back around, Cas is sprawled out on the bed with his hand shoved down his pants. The top button of his jeans is undone and he’s stroking himself gently, almost idly. His shirt is still unbuttoned from earlier, leaving his tanned and toned chest on full display. Dean lets himself look since Cas clearly wants him to, taking in everything about his beautiful husband from his ridiculous bedhead to his bare feet, his gaze settling longingly on those relaxed and spread legs. Dean swallows thickly as the image of those thick thighs squeezing his hips or his head flashes through his mind. Cas’ eyes are dark and hooded and he bites his bottom lip as Dean watches. It all makes for quite the picture but despite that, and despite everything they’ve discussed, it’s still going to take Dean a minute to get used to having Cas like this in his bed again.   

Castiel doesn’t seem to have any such qualms. He reaches out with his free hand and urges Dean closer. “Come be with me,” he says quietly, a note of desperation still audible in his voice. “Please, Dean. I really need this.”

And Dean goes, not just for Cas but for himself, though admittedly, he’d never be able to deny this version of Castiel a thing. As he’s making his way up the bed and over Cas’ body, he’s already imagining all the ways he wants Castiel to fuck him, trying and failing to pick a favorite memory to recreate. He’s always been partial to getting railed from behind, especially when Cas would get a little rough and pull his hair or push his head down, maybe smack his ass a little, but the pain he’s been wrestling down all day chooses this fucking moment to rear its ugly head. He hisses in frustration as it blooms and radiates outward, turning what’d he’d hoped would be a seductive crawl into a slow slide down onto his side, where he curls up in agony. He can’t help but let out a little moan, and the irony of that isn’t lost on him at all.

To his credit, Castiel switches gears immediately, shooting up and kneeling at the side of the bed to soothe a hand up Dean’s side, murmuring comforting words and trying to figure out how to be helpful. Dean’s mostly just irritated and he doesn’t answer at first because there’s no way he can without sounding like he’s angry at Cas. Yes, he hurts and no, he can’t exactly ignore it, but that doesn’t do anything to kill the pent up sexual frustration and residual arousal still coursing through his system. He’s been living with this for long enough now that he’s learned to work through the worst of it so that _pain_ doesn’t negate living. Unfortunately, at times like these, he almost wishes it were the cold bucket of water over the head it used to be. He growls into the quilt and seeks out Castiel’s hand to squeeze.

“Dean, what can I do? Do you have stronger medication than the one you took earlier? What about heat or ice? I could call your doctor,” Castiel offers, still kneeling on the floor but now with his cheek resting on the bed next to Dean’s so that they’re face to face. Dean shakes his head and leans forward to kiss the worried look off of Cas’ face. It’s gentle and soft, but Dean lingers, and maybe there’s something to be said for old-fashioned TLC because he does feel a bit better when he pulls back.

“Orgasms release oxytocin,” he suggests, nodding seriously as he pulls back. “It’s a natural painkiller.” But even as he says it, the laugh it pulls out of him makes him wince.

Castiel’s forehead crinkles even further in concern. “I don’t like this.”

With a kiss to Cas’ knuckles, Dean grunts in agreement. “Can’t say I’m a huge fan of it either, sunshine.” They’re both quiet for a moment, and then Dean has a _brilliant_ beyond brilliant idea.

***

“I cannot believe you talked me into this.”

“Oh, yea, like it was so difficult. Pass it over, you little deviant.”

“If Jack could see us now.”

“Psh, he’d be proud. Mad that I lied about his stash, furious that we smoked it, but proud. ...Don’t tell him, though.”

“What kind of parent do you take me for?”

The indignation in Cas’ voice, even as smoke is still drifting out of his mouth makes Dean laugh, and this time it doesn’t hurt him to do so. He and Cas are tangled together against the headboard of his bed, still only half-dressed and both looking a complete disaster. Castiel had texted Jack before they’d broken out the weed, securing their freedom for the night as Jack agreed to take the boys to their home and stay with them, so long as Claire was allowed to come with. At Dean’s insistence, Castiel had decided to trust his son for once and simply told him to “be responsible.” Jack’s earned it, after all. He’s working at something for the first time in his entire life, he’s clean, and he’s looking out for his step-brothers. Dean couldn’t be prouder, and he knows Cas is too.

But equally as important, they’re really _alone,_ and Dean’s feeling pretty damn good for a dead man walking.

“Cas,” he whispers, nudging under the man’s scratchy jawline with his nose. “Cas, I feel, uh, pretty good. Might want to jump on this ride while it’s… hot. Or, running. Whatever. Cas, I’m high and ready to fuck now,” he declares, punctuating his announcement by biting down on Castiel’s collarbone.

Castiel snorts. “When you say it like that, how can I resist?”

“C’mon, baby,” Dean murmurs, mouthing his way down Cas’ chest.

But Castiel pushes him back, albeit gently. “I know what you had your heart set on tonight,” he says gently, and Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “But,” he adds, “I would feel better if we waited to get the okay from your doctor regarding… penetration and… the rougher things you like.”

Dean sits up straight. “Feelin’ a little kink-shamed here, Cas.” He pouts. “Not to mention blue balled. Don’t sideline me, please, Cas. I feel good tonight, and I want you.” He pauses and makes a conscious effort to soften a little because Castiel deserves it, and it’s not something he’s bothered to do in the past. “I love you,” he says quietly.

With a heaving sigh, Castiel pushes himself up and over so that he’s straddling Dean’s lap. He leans down to press their lips together, and _that spark, fuck_ , it’s still glorious, every time. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. I’m doing nothing of the sort. You’re not the only one here who has wants and needs.” Big blue eyes look up from under dark lashes, and the fire behind them has clearly been lit once again. “I’m simply saying that you are high and unable to effectively gauge your pain level. Therefore, you should let me take care of you, and if you wish to get rough…” Castiel trails off as his hands skate over Dean’s bare chest. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped half an octave, and the sexy low rumble is enough to make Dean’s dick stand up and pay attention. “Get rough with me.”

Suddenly dry-mouthed, all Dean can do is nod.

The joint is really kicking in now, blurring Dean’s edges in a pleasant, downshifted sort of way. Everything he sees, everything he does seems slower, sweeter, more languid. He’s not sure when the lights went out but at some point they must have, replaced with a handful of candles he didn’t even know he owned. Castiel hovers over him, looking every bit the part of a Greek god with his skin lit bronze in the flickering light. One of the candles sits on top of his dresser, and the way Castiel’s positioned it lights him from behind creating a halo around his head, and Dean’s _fucked._ There’s a very good chance he’s going to cry his way through this entire event.

“Angel,” Dean murmurs as he reaches up to cup Castiel’s cheek and pull him down to be kissed.

“Been more than a decade since you called me that,” Castiel smiles into his mouth. “I missed it. I missed you.” Their kiss deepens, Cas licking into his mouth and along his tongue, biting at his bottom lip and shoving his hands through Dean’s hair. Dean puts his own hands to better use, pushing and tugging at both of their pants until they’re finally, finally gone and there’s nothing left between them but air. Dean’s buzz tells him there’s something poetic about that thought, but it quickly melts away as Castiel wraps big, warm fingers around his cock. And while he’s floating pretty high by now, the same buzz is also amplifying every touch, every sensation of having Cas’ naked flesh pressed flush alongside his own. Emotion surges through his body and has tears pricking at his eyes yet again, and for once, Dean lets them fall. Castiel takes notice when the wetness slides past Dean’s face and down onto his neck, where he’s currently behind leaving a trail of hickeys.

“Oh, love,” he soothes, sliding off of Dean and onto his side so that he can pull Dean close.

Dean lets himself be dragged, taking comfort in Cas’ scent, his warm mouth, his strong hands, and firm body. He sucks in a ragged breath and steals a few short, grounding kisses. “Don’t stop, alright? I don’t want to stop. I just… fuck, Cas. There wasn’t a night I didn’t think of you. I need you to know that.” Despite the tears, Dean’s erection hasn’t flagged, and he drops a hand to Cas’s hip to keep their bodies moving together, letting out a groan as Castiel’s length slides against his own. He drops his face into the curve of Cas’ neck and focuses on maintaining his rhythm. Castiel just kisses his temple and grips his ass tighter, and it’s all so painfully familiar and easy. Dean can’t help but marvel at how little has changed, or maybe Cas just hasn’t been getting what he really wants all these years. Regardless, it all comes flooding back like a tidal wave as Dean’s hands roam. Cas likes to be kissed _there,_ Cas likes to be touched _here,_ Cas makes that whining noise _I like_ when my fingers move _inside_ like _this_.

Dean opens him up without changing positions, unable to bear the idea of putting distance between them right now. He reaches around and pushes two fingers inside of Cas in a way that keeps them firmly pressed together. Castiel seems to like it, if his sloppy, unfocused kissing is any indication. He moans quietly as he rocks back on Dean’s hand and then forward against his stomach, his eyes half open and glazed from pot and lust. Dean’s doing his level best to stay in the moment, and the pot is doing its part to keep him away from any morbid thoughts, but staring down at Castiel’s face, kissing his spit-shiny lips, Dean _knows_ that this image is going to be one of his last thoughts. _Cas wants me,_ he can’t help but think incredulously. _Cas loves me, maybe always has. And he’s mine._

With a growl that bursts unbidden from the back of his throat, he pushes his husband onto his back and hums appreciatively as the man spreads his legs automatically beneath him. “God, yes,” he murmurs, leaning down to lick into Cas’ mouth and then trail wet kisses over his jaw and down his neck. He mouths down to Cas’ sternum and then stops, resting his forehead there for a moment and just relishing feeling his heart beating steadily. When he lifts his head, big blue eyes are looking down and watching him openly. Cas’ hand comes up to cup the back of his head.

“I love you,” he says firmly. “Like nothing else in this world.”

And what can Dean fucking say to that? Nothing, so he lets Cas wrap his arms around him and does the same in turn, responding to Cas’ urgings to _fuck him already_ by lining himself up and pushing in. Castiel arches off the bed, pressing their bodies even harder together as his mouth drops open and his eyes squeeze shut. Dean watches, takes it all in; every detail, every noise, _everything,_ from the hitch in Cas’ breathing to the clench of his muscles. His mind might be a bit fuzzy, but everything about _this_ is in full color and surround sound. When Castiel doesn’t relax, he kisses him softly and murmurs praise in his ear, rolling his hips gently to help him adjust.

“It’s good, Dean,” Castiel manages. “Keep going, love. I’m fine, I’m _—_ unggh,” his words cut off with a strangled moan as Dean finally finds the right angle. He hooks Cas’ leg over his arm at the knee and picks up the pace. Cas surges up to kiss him, biting aggressively at his bottom lip and tongue and mouthing at any skin he can reach any time Dean shifts away. “I was _—_ _oh—_ meant to be _—_ _fuck—_ riding you,” he finally grunts out. “This _—_ _ungh—_ is _—ah—strenuous_.”

“M’fine, sweetheart,” Dean soothes with a smile, capturing Castiel’s lips and dipping his head to bite a nipple in an attempt to distract him.

“ _No,”_ Castiel persists, and Dean feels the muscles in his stomach go taut against his own. Cas thighs squeeze his hips and the world tilts and flips until he finds himself staring at the ceiling.

“Hot damn,” he breathes. “That was fucking _hot_.” Castiel just tilts his head and stares down at him, Dean’s cock still firmly up his ass. “Come on then,” Dean smirks. “Thought you were going to ride me.”

Castiel squints and pinches Dean’s nipples, making him flinch and yell out. “Be careful what you wish for,” he deadpans, but before Dean can retort, he’s lifting up and slamming back down, and it’s Dean’s turn to be speechless. His hands go to Cas’ hips and he watches in awe as the body over him flexes and ripples. _His Cas. His husband._ He fucking loves him. After a few moments, he remembers himself and moves his hand to Castiel’s cock. Even just feeling it slide like satin across his palm, his thumb brushing over the head and his hand squeezing gently at the base, feels so _right,_ so good. They move together like that for what feels like an endless amount of time, letting the pressure build slowly and welcoming it like a warm tidal wave when it finally washes over them. Coming inside Castiel is almost surreal, and Dean would be lying if he tried to claim a few more tears didn’t leak out.

Afterward, when they’re somewhat clean and wrapped up in a blanket facing each other, Dean thumbs over Castiel’s cheek and leans across their shared pillow to press their lips together once again. “You’re really here?” His voice is a little broken, and he’s not proud of how vulnerable he feels in this moment, but Castiel reaches up to grab his hand and hold on tight.

“Yes,” he affirms, holding Dean’s gaze and brushing his lips over Dean’s knuckles. “I’m only sorry that it took me so long.”

Dean hesitates for a moment and then rolls over, fishing inside the drawer of his bedside table. Castiel waits silently while he locates what he’s looking for in the back of the drawer, closing them up in his hand before rolling back over and propping himself up on one elbow.

“It’s alright if this is… if you don’t want this back,” he says, opening his palm to reveal their wedding rings. A sad noise escapes from Castiel’s lips and Dean’s eyes snap up to his face, expecting the worst.

 _“Oh,”_ Castiel breathes, a tear slipping down his cheek.

Dean starts to close his hand. “It’s too much. I shouldn’t have -”

Castiel silences him with a hard kiss, covering his hand and the rings with his own. “Will you put it on me?” His eyes are wide and watery, and Dean has to work to fight his own emotions back too.

He swallows hard as he works the metal circle over Cas’ knuckles and onto his bare finger, where there’s no break in his tan. And because he can’t leave well enough alone, he finds himself asking, “How come you never wore a ring with Meg?”

But Castiel just shrugs and never looks away from Dean’s face. “Because I was never really hers,” he answers as if he’s been waiting for the opportunity to say so, and maybe he has. Dean gets tired of waiting while Castiel returns the favor of helping with his ring, and interrupts him with a crushing kiss. “Missed you,” he says into his mouth because it can’t fucking be said enough. “ _Missed_ you.”

Dean knows that this moment can’t last, that this little bubble they’re hiding in is really just the eye of the storm, and the hurricane is on the move. But for tonight, he can pretend. He can hold Cas, and he can pretend. And tomorrow, they’ll face the storm together.

***

When Jack and Claire spill out of Cas’ car the next morning with the news that Meg had shown up and taken off with the boys, Castiel excuses himself to make some calls, leaving Dean and Jack alone. He shoots Dean a meaningful look as he walks away, eyeing Jack pointedly, and Dean knows he’s right. It’s time.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long for an opening. Claire hugs Jack goodbye and takes off for her own house while Jack beelines for the sink and starts brushing his teeth. His eyes catch Dean’s in the mirror that he salvaged from his old bathroom wall and propped up over the sink.

“You look like shit lately, you know?”

Dean smiles, watches in the mirror as his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’re looking better than ever,” he replies, giving Jack’s newly toned-up bicep a squeeze. He makes his way back to his unmade bed and plops down heavily. When Jack’s finished rinsing, he motions him over to sit on his own bed across the way. He’s trying to figure out how to get the right words out when Jack opens the drawer of his bedside table and pulls out Dean’s painkillers. He shakes them at Dean before popping the top, pouring them into his hand and counting. Dean leans back and watches in silence as Jack drops them one at a time back into the bottle, replacing the cap and setting them on top of the little table when he’s done.

“What’s really going on, Dad? These pills you’re taking, they’re awfully strong to be for your back, and you seem to be going through them pretty fast.”

Gathering his courage, Dean sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed so they’re flat on the floor. He and Jack are facing each other now, knees only inches apart. It’s the closest and longest Jack’s willingly stayed near him since he arrived. Dean takes a deep breath, looks Jack in the eye and says, “I’m having a problem with cancer.”   

For a moment, nothing happens and Dean stupidly lets himself hope that this won’t be _that_ bad. That they’ll be able to work through this and the day, the week, the _summer,_ his entire relationship with Jack will somehow still be salvageable when they come out the other side.

But Dean recognizes walls when he sees them, and Jack’s are going up right in front of his eyes, even as tears escape and leak down his face. “How _long?”_ His voice is gritty and demanding and the bitter accusations being thrown from his eyes are more painful than anything Dean’s been medicating away. He swallows heavily before answering.

“Three months.”

“Thr _—_ three _months?”_ Jack jumps to standing and starts pacing the small room angrily. “So you knew this from the start?” Dean thinks for a moment that he’s going to get in his face, maybe even throw a punch or two, but he doesn’t. In the end, he stands sadly in the middle of the garage, his arms hanging defeatedly by his sides. “You lied to me.”

Dean spreads his hands helplessly. “I would have lied to myself if I thought I’d believe it.”

“So what, this was all a trick? This whole summer, having me here, it was for _your_ sake. You lied to me, you _selfish_ fuck. Bringing me here, trying to get me to like you?”

Dean shakes his head, makes his way over to where Jack is standing. “I wasn’t trying to get you to like me,” he mutters.

“Then _what?_ You bring me here, tell me we’re going to build something together, but you were lying the whole- _”_

“I was _trying_ to get you to _love me_ ,” Dean interrupts, talking loudly to make sure Jack hears him over his own ranting. He knows his own eyes are shining, and he reaches for Jack, but his son pulls away.

“Well congratulations,” Jack growls with a bitter nod as he stomps from the garage. “Because you fucking pulled it off!”

Dean watches him bolt across the lawn to Claire’s house, sees him knock and speak to Lisa, who seems reluctant to let him in. But then he thinks he sees Lisa’s face turn sharply to look at _him_ from all the way across the street, and she ushers Jack inside before the door closes. A tear leaks from one of Dean’s eyes and wets a path down his cheek. His chest hurts something fierce, and his breathing is tight. It’s so distracting that he almost doesn’t notice when Castiel peeks his head around the edge of the garage.

“Dean?” Dean sways on his feet and doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer. “Dean, are you alright?” He’s doing his best to gulp in lungfuls of air, but it seems as if no matter how much he takes in, he still feels like he’s suffocating. The pain in his chest gets stronger, and his vision blurs. Castiel’s rushing towards him as everything starts to go dark. He feels strong arms close around his body as he tries to whisper Cas’ name, but nothing makes it from his throat to his lips. _This is it,_ he thinks. _At least I’m not alone._

***

When Dean wakes up, the sight that he opens his eyes to is alarming, to say the least. It’s dark and he’s enclosed on all sides so naturally, he decides he’s in a coffin, accidentally buried alive, and he panics. He kicks and punches at the walls, as much as he can inside the confined space, all the while screaming and begging at the top of his lungs for rescue. He’s so terrified and overwhelmed that he only registers the lights going on behind his head in the background of his mind, nothing that he can access or make use of in his current state. And when the surface he’s laying on begins to move, it only scares him more. He’s somewhat aware that he’s slowly achieving more space and freedom to flail, and he takes advantage of it, colliding with body parts and only absently registering the sounds of what must be human voices.

And then he’s falling, falling, and hitting a hard, unforgiving surface with a thud. The shock of the fall combined with the spacial awareness of his newfound freedom knocks some of the fight right out of him. He lies on the floor breathing hard and staring up into bright, fluorescent lights. And then Cas’ face appears over him, backlit by the ugly glow and no less angelic for it.

“Hey, angel,” he mumbles, tasting copper on his tongue. “S’is heaven or wha?”

Castiel’s lips are moving, but Dean’s just not processing. He lifts his hand to rub at his eyes and feels wetness there. His hand is bloody. There’s another head, an unfamiliar one this time, that comes into view besides Castiel’s and Dean manages to tamp down his _fight, kill, survive_ reflex just in time to keep from knocking it off whatever shoulders it’s presumably attached to.

He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again, the voices clarifying in time for him to hear something about a _sedative for the scan,_ and then he feels a cool rush moving up the inside of his arm, followed closely behind by a _warm_ rush, and that one is _much_ more pleasant. Castiel’s face is knitted in concern as Dean starts to feel a very pleasant desire to take a nap sweep over him.

“Hey, angel, heaven s’nice ‘cept for tha blood,” he slurs, and Castiel’s lips press into a thin line. His body is heavy now, heavy and warm and tingly. It’s very comfortable. “Nigh’, Casssss,” he giggles, flopping his hand in Castiel’s direction in a very terrible attempt at a comforting pat. Dean closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

***

The next time he wakes, he’s in a familiar hospital room, and although groggy, he feels pretty coherent. He groans in embarrassment as he remembers his earlier waking, realizing now that he must have been in an MRI or CT scanner, obviously not a coffin. He’s sore all over and notes bandages on both of his hands when he lifts them up for inspection. _Just when you think things can’t get any worse, right? Never say never,_ he thinks. He hopes he didn’t hurt anyone too badly, and looks around the room to find Cas so that he can fill him in on the damage he inflicted. With any luck, he can convince Cas to wheel him back down to radiology so that he can apologize in person. The room he’s in looks to be a single and it’s empty, no Cas in sight. The blinds to the window are wide open though, and Dean can see from his bed that he’s at the hospital just down the road from his home. Well, what’s left of his home, anyway. In fact, he’s pretty sure he should be able to see his little work in progress on the tip of the bluffs if he squints. It’s dark right now though, and he can’t even make out the blue of the Pacific, never mind a half-built dot in the distance.

It’s then he realizes that there’s a call bell tucked into the palm of his hand, so he presses the red button at the top of it. A quiet _ding ding ding_ emits from somewhere over his head, and it’s not long before his closed door is being pushed open. Dean’s not sure what he expected, maybe Cas and if he was being _really_ hopeful, Jack, but that’s not what comes through the door. There’s gotta be ten, maybe twelve doctors in lab coats lead by his oncologist who has his arm around an openly tearful Castiel’s shoulders.

“ _Oh,_ ” Castiel breathes when he sees him, a fresh wave of tears filling his eyes and spilling over unrestrained. He breaks away from the doctor and rushes to Dean’s side, burying his head in Dean’s neck. “ _Dean,_ ” he utters, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas sounded… relieved?

“Hey,” he replies, bringing his bandaged hands up to hold the back of Cas’ head and wrap around his back. “Sorry for scaring you, sunshine.” Castiel just huffs what sounds like a half-laugh, half-sob into his neck and clings on tighter. “So uh…” Dean gestures to the white-coated mob now taking up the better part of his room as his doctor slots scans into one of those wall holders that lights them up from behind. “What’s the word, Doc? Lotta fuss for a dude that’s about to kick it.”

“ _Dean,"_ Castiel says again, this time pulling back before continuing, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised as hell and a little offended because Cas has a _smile_ plastered over his otherwise exhausted face. Castiel takes his hands and kisses them on the knuckles. “You’re not.”

Dean stares blankly, shaking his head slightly in confusion. “I’m not… what? Cas, did you steal some of my morphine? ‘Cause last time I checked, this whole thing was more of a ‘tragedy mask’ sort of affair.”

Castiel barks out a laugh at that, and Dean’s starting to get pissed.

“The fuck, Cas?” But Cas has tears flowing down his cheeks again, and he’s bent over on the bed with his forehead on Dean’s hands, not looking like he’s going to be filling in the blanks any time soon.

Dean’s doctor smartly chooses that moment to jump in, as Dean looks over at him in disbelief. “I believe what the other Mr. Winchester is trying to tell you, is that you are not dying, Dean.” Those words just don’t compute in Dean’s head, and he stares with his mouth open for several long moments.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

The doctor just shrugs, as if he’s discussing something mundane like the market price of brisket, and not Dean’s fucking _life._ His life. His life that may not actually be coming to an untimely, unfulfilled end, just as it’s finally fucking beginning.

“We did tell you that the experimental targeted treatment was your best shot, Dean. Your choice to try those pills undoubtedly saved your life. I would have given them perhaps an 18% chance of working, but someone has to be that 18%, don’t they? Now, you’re not completely out of the woods by any means, but since the cancer’s shrunk and apparently even disappeared from some of the previously infiltrated organs, we can now put together a plan that will include surgery and radiation, as long as you’re agreeable.”

Dean just sits there, blinking and trying to process, but he forces himself to nod. The doctor continues to ramble, pointing out light and dark spots on the scans he’d hung up and explaining how Dean had likely collapsed from the experimental medication’s side effects, which can apparently put a strain on the heart and cause a number of other issues. Dean doesn’t bother to bring up how hard he’s been working his body, it’s not like it matters now. He hears the doctor say that he wants Dean to stay admitted to the hospital until he’s transitioned off of the pills and undergone his first surgery. Still numb to the entire situation and the jarring news, Dean agrees.

At some point during the conversation, Castiel’s managed to pull himself together enough so that when Dean looks down, he’s gazing back up at him like he hung the fuckin’ moon. Dean’s oncologist seems to sense a shift in the mood and announces that everyone’s had “quite enough excitement for one day,” herding the medical rubberneckers back out the door like some kind of doctor daycare teacher. As soon as they’re gone, Castiel crawls up and into Dean’s lap, straddling him as he wraps arms around his shoulders and buries his face back into Dean’s neck.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you, and this isn’t the end.”

Dean rests his face on Castiel’s shoulder, staring past him to where his scans are still hanging and lit up on the wall. His hands tighten involuntarily in Castiel’s shirt as tears finally start to well up in his eyes. “Cas,” he whispers, voice rough and strained. “You’re gonna stay with me, right?”

Castiel pulls back to look him in the eyes, his construction-calloused palm soothing over Dean’s prickly jaw. “Always,” he replies.

***

The next week flies by as Dean undergoes surgery to remove the worst of the main tumor. Castiel holds his hand and walks him all the way to the doors of the OR suite, the farthest point he’s allowed to go, kissing him goodbye and promising to be there on the other side. Dean makes the orderlies wheel his bed backward so that he can watch Cas press his hand to the glass of one of the swinging doors’ window, holding eye contact until they turn a corner and he’s out of sight. Dean’s hands clench anxiously in the bedclothes as the OR staff bustles around him, shuffling him onto the table and placing a plastic mask over his face. He’s terrified, but he focuses on the memory of Cas’ blue eyes as he breathes deeply, slowly drifting under.

When he wakes, hazy and sore, the first thing he does is look around the room like a crazy person, scared that this will be the moment he’ll find himself alone again, that it was all just a dream. But as promised, there his angel is, bustling around him like he thinks he’s a nurse and clearly driving the staff crazy. Despite the significant pain he’s in, Dean smiles at the sight.

It’s a far cry from his lonely stay in the hospital all those months ago.

His oncologist is in great spirits when he shows up to inform Dean that the surgery was very successful and that he has high hopes for Dean’s recovery. He starts radiation soon after but unfortunately, that process is extremely difficult and painful. Due to Dean’s weakened state, his doctors want to keep him in the hospital through his first round of radiation therapy, and Dean quickly finds that he’s grateful for that. His side effects are numerous and he often ends up too fatigued and nauseous to keep down any food or drink. The nurses work hard to make him comfortable with pain medication, anti-nausea injections, and IV fluids. Castiel buys him soft clothing and launders it himself with gentle detergent so that it’s easy on his skin. He advocates for him, empowers him in making his own decisions, makes sure that the food and drink he’s able to tolerate are available all of the time. He puts movies on Dean’s laptop and takes him for walks outside the hospital.

Most importantly, he _touches_ Dean, holds him, kisses him, and doesn’t ever treat him like a sick, fragile person. Even as Dean loses more weight and does disgusting things like vomiting and shitting in front of him, Castiel never falters. In fact, he goes out of his way to remind Dean how beautiful he thinks he is, how much Cas loves him _and_ his body, tells him how he can’t wait until he’s feeling better so that he can _show_ him just how much. Dean would probably be skeptical of anyone else saying those things, but this is Cas _—_ the guy doesn’t know the meaning of insincere. Instead, Dean just feels loved.

But that doesn’t mean this whole thing isn’t hard for him or that his insecurities don’t rear their ugly heads every now and again. He’s not used to relying on other people for anything never mind meeting his daily needs, so he finds himself frequently frustrated and picking fights with Cas because Cas is _there_ and an easy target. And also maybe a _little_ part of Dean wants to push and pick at him and see if he can goad him into throwing in the towel. After all, he did it once before and Dean was a lot less work and much better eye candy ten years ago. But Castiel sees right through him, letting Dean bitch and moan and throw proverbial punches when he thinks he needs it, offering him space when he gets excessively obnoxious, and sometimes, when it’s _really_ necessary, kissing him until he shuts up and stops acting stupid.

But he doesn’t leave.

In the meantime, Dean gets a surprising number of visitors once word about his condition gets around. Garth shows up with a teddy bear almost as big as Dean, Lisa and Claire drop by several times with hugs and homemade meals, and even a few of Dean’s other neighbors and former co-workers drop by or send flowers to wish him well. To Dean’s shock, Meg actually brings the boys by more than once. She doesn’t come into Dean’s room but sends the boys crashing through the door yelling excitedly as they throw their arms around Cas and Dean in turn and shove homemade cards into Dean’s hands. They prattle on about how they’re “totally going to finish the house so it’s ready for you, Dean!”

Dean pats them on their heads and thanks them for the thought. Castiel gets a strange look on his face at the boys' words, but Dean just writes it off as Meg-related. He disappears for a couple of hours after Meg’s second visit and comes back with a stack of legal documents in hand. Turns out, Meg had divorce papers drawn up and Castiel was more than willing to sign on the dotted line as requested. He reports that Meg seemed to recognize that the mess their marriage had become was her fault as much as Cas’, and not really Dean’s at all. Supposedly she’d admitted she was sorry their relationship had come to this, and that she hoped they could move on as adults and go back to being friends, at least for the children’s sake. Dean was happy for Cas but mostly happy for himself. It was starting to feel like they might actually get out of this mess alive, might actually have a shot at moving forward and living _happily ever after,_ whatever that might mean.

For once, everything seemed to be actually going _right._ Except, unfortunately, for one major thing.

Jack never came.

Those first few days when visitors started to show up Dean would split his time between checking his phone and looking at the door, hoping every minute that his son would walk through it. Cas easily to pick up on his line of thought but he adamantly refused to comment on Jack’s choices except to reassure Dean that he was fine and didn’t appear to be using or otherwise spiraling over the situation. Dean waited patiently at first, trying valiantly to give Jack space and to not make things worse. He knew that he had fucked up by not being honest with him from the jump and that it was up to Jack alone to decide whether Dean’s mistake would be something that he felt he could forgive.

But Dean’s heart still aches knowing that he might have to live with the fact that he’d repaired his and Jack’s relationship against all odds only to irreparably destroy it.

***

It’s evening on a Wednesday, just shy of sunset on the two week anniversary of Dean’s collapse and subsequent admission to the hospital when Jack finally shows up. Castiel had left to do some laundry and Dean was watching the sun burst into color as it began its slow descent into the Pacific. He’d had a particularly trying day of radiation, one of those ones that made it hard to even get out of bed and make it to the bathroom. He’d requested an extra dose of morphine as well, something he generally tried to avoid but was occasionally necessary for both his and Cas’ sanity. Castiel was constantly chastising him for foregoing pain medication, but Dean’s stubborn and insistent that he wasn’t about to kick cancer just to exchange it for an opiate addiction.

But some days are just too much and Dean’s slowly learning that it’s okay to want to be comfortable. That it’s okay to not be able to power through absolutely everything on willpower and mental strength alone. That it’s okay to need help and to let people give it to you.

In any case, tonight he’s comfortable. He picks at his dinner tray but the morphine dampens his appetite as well as makes him dizzy and fuzzy. The TV show he’s half-watching is unable to hold his attention and he turns it off when the medicine hits its peak in his system and causes the characters on the TV to look more like blobs than people. So when Jack walks in soaking wet with his hair plastered to his face and his black cargo shorts dripping puddles onto the linoleum floor, no one could blame Dean for having to question whether or not he’s hallucinating.

He’s not, for what it’s worth.

Jack just stands there for a long moment, staring and dripping silently like some kind of angsty swamp monster, but Dean realizes what a monumental effort he’s making just by being there, so he waits patiently for his son to make the next move. Their staring contest is interrupted by a nurse who takes one look at Jack and seems to brace herself, probably anticipating the need to bodily remove him from the room.

“Can I help you with something?” Her gaze darts between Jack and Dean, and it’s only then that Jack speaks.

“That’s my father,” is all he says, but the nurse’s expression lights up with realization, and she eyes Dean with understanding before backing out the door. Jack doesn’t return to making eye contact with Dean immediately, instead busying himself with moving a chair from over by the window next to his bedside.

“Hey,” he says then, as if they do this every day, as if Dean hasn’t ruined everything between them with his selfish bullshit. “How are you feeling?”

Dean’s exhausted from the day and even more from the medicine, but he scrabbles at the controls on the bed to help him sit up and give his son his full attention, now that he’s finally here. Jack surprises him by gently removing his hand and working the buttons in his stead. The long sleeves of his black henley are damp where they touch Dean’s hand.

“You’re wet,” Dean says roughly, his voice scratchy and tired.

Jack huffs a nervous laugh. “Yes, I know.”

“Why?”

The proud smile that breaks out over Jack’s face is breathtaking. “I went for a small swim,” he says. Realization dawns over Dean and he squeezes Jack’s arm weakly, asking for confirmation while sure that he already knows the answer.

“Did you jump? From the cliffs?”

Jack’s responding grin is all the reply Dean needs, and he squeezes Jack again in approval. “Proud of you,” he whispers. Jack sits there for a moment, smiling down at his lap, before covering Dean’s hand on his arm with his own and then letting go to stand.

“Come on, I wanna show you something. Don’t get up.” Before he can reply, Jack unlocks Dean’s bed and wheels it over to the window so that Dean is looking straight out. The setting sun is creating a glare that makes it hard to see too far into the distance, but Jack hands him a pair of binoculars and that helps. When Dean raises them to his face it’s not hard to discover what Jack is trying to show him. There in the distance, on the peak of the bluffs is their house, almost finished and with what looks like a million people swarmed all over the property. As a bonus, when he lowers the binoculars Dean can still see the outline of the house clearly because it’s decked out from top to bottom in colorful, twinkling Christmas lights.

“Almost there,” Jack informs him, and his voice is filled with so much excitement and pride. Hearing Jack looking, acting, _feeling_ alive and engaged for the first time is... it’s, well, Dean isn’t sure there are words to describe what it means to him. It’s relieving that Jack seems to have forgiven him and of course, that alone is thrilling, but Dean suddenly realizes that it doesn’t much matter, not as long as Jack is _happy._ Oblivious to Dean’s internal meanderings, Jack continues talking, looking out the window towards the festively decorated house as Dean watches him with a smile on his face.

“We’ve got more help than we can handle now… pretty much everyone who visited you here and then some. Guess word got around about your cancer and…” Jack shrugs. “People say they wanted you to have somewhere nice to come home to. I think you’d be surprised at how many people like you, Dad. Mildred Baker? From three houses down? She’s not so great with a hammer but she brings us casseroles and won’t shut up about the time you mowed her lawn for three months after she had bunion surgery. And uh, Jesse and Cesar? They’re down at the end of the street. They said you guys haven’t hung out much but when their house got egged and tagged a couple of years ago you jumped in to help clean up like it was nothing. Then there’s Andrea and her son Lucas, something about you jumping from the cliffs to rescue him from a rip current in the ocean? Actually, it kinda seems like almost everybody has a story like that about you. You’re kind of a local legend. I think if people knew you needed help on the house earlier, they would have gladly jumped in.”

Shaking his head weakly before letting it flop back on the pillow, Dean replies, “That’s _—_ no, man. I was just being neighborly. Stuff I did was nothing special, that’s just what people should do for each other.”

Jack raises his eyebrows but doesn’t argue. “Well anyway, seems like they agree with you because they’re all intent on doing whatever they can to return the favor.” 

Dean blinks back the tears suddenly filling his eyes, covering the unmanly rush of emotion by raising the binoculars back to his face and taking another look at his house. “Well, it looks great,” he tells Jack, and he knows he’s not fooling anyone when he hears his voice come out still thick with emotion. He puts the binoculars down and looks up at his son.

“Finish it, Jack,” he murmurs, and Jack nods sincerely as he gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Much as he wants to savor this unexpected time with his son, Dean feels the tendrils of exhaustion creeping up on him. Before he can pass out without so much as telling Jack goodnight, he explains the situation and apologizes for not being stronger.

“It’s okay, dad,” Jack replies quietly as he shifts Dean’s bed back into place and pulls the covers up around him. Dean’s eyelids are closing against his will, getting heavier by the second, and he’s doing that thing where he lets them shut for an extra-long blink before jerking them open again to steal another waking moment in Jack’s presence. He expects Jack to take off now, for him to be gone each time his eyes fly open again, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, Jack surprises Dean by sitting down on the edge of his bed and as Dean’s _just_ about to drift off for good, throwing his arms around him and hugging him tightly. It’s a damn good thing Dean’s so tired because he _knows_ there’s no way in hell he wouldn’t have burst into tears otherwise. One traitorous drop escapes and tracks down his cheek anyway, but he’s too far gone to lift his hand and wipe it away.

Dean goes to sleep with the memory of his young son in his arms, his heart beating against his own chest as he saves him from the waves, playing on repeat in his head. His hospital gown is damp with the ocean water still soaking Jack’s shirt.

***


	5. Chapter 5

 

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When Castiel shows up later that night he’s toting a laptop, a burned DVD, and a mischievous smirk on his face. He refuses to answer Dean’s suspicious, bleary queries about what he’s up to, going about the business of setting the laptop up quietly on Dean’s overbed table. After inserting the DVD and cueing it up to where he wants it, he nudges Dean to make room on the bed and shoehorns himself in next to him. Dean grumbles out loud while secretly thrilling over the opportunity to hold Cas, an opportunity that’s been few and far between these last few weeks. The times when they’ve been able to be physically affectionate have mostly consisted of Castiel pulling him into his own chest, stroking his hair, or holding his hand. That’s without even mentioning the far less romantic moments such as Cas helping him walk to the toilet or wash himself in the shower, or wiping puke off of his chin after a rough patch of radiation. Not that he’d trade having Castiel here for anything, but having things switched up a bit, having Cas curled around his body, laying his cheek on _Dean’s_ chest for once, not treating him like he’s fragile or sick _—_ well, it goes a long way to restoring Dean’s flagging sense of masculinity. He tightens his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and drops a kiss into his hair.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, nosing the top of Cas’ head.

“Yes, I tried this thing they call ‘showering.’ It was surprisingly effective,” Castiel deadpans as he fiddles with the laptop touchpad.

“You’ll have to show me some time,” Dean continues, reaching down to grab Castiel’s thigh and yank it further across his own so that Cas’ whole body is more tightly pressed against his side. “That’s more like it.”

Castiel tilts his head up so their eyes can meet and Dean leans down to steal a kiss. “Hmm,” Dean sighs happily. “Hospitals aren’t so bad.”

“You have a king sized bed at home,” Castiel reminds him, but he’s smiling. “They aren’t that great, either.” He pushes up to an elbow despite the lack of room to do so and looks Dean up and down, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. “How much morphine did you have?” That startles a laugh from Dean, and he shakes his head as he pulls Castiel back down to his chest.

“Shut up and play whatever this is, smart ass.”

Castiel stretches up and kisses Dean’s cheek, soft lips brushing over rough stubble. “You’re scratchy,” he announces. “Shall I give you a shave later?”  

And _fuck_ , if Cas doesn’t still know how to press all of Dean’s buttons. Dean glares at the top of his head, he knows a pretend innocuous question when he hears one. Cas might sound all innocent and good-intentioned, but he knows perfectly well what Dean’s picturing now and _is he ever_. Castiel straddling his thighs, hovering over him close but not _quite_ close enough, their groins barely brushing on occasion as he leans in. The intimacy and the thrill of baring his neck, of letting Cas drag a razor over that sensitive, vulnerable skin as he bites his own lip and _—fuck,_ he’s already a third of the way hard just dreaming about it and he’s got goose pimples rising all over his arms. And Castiel, the smug bastard, is totally smiling right now, Dean can _feel_ the shape of his mouth through his thin gown.  

“Tease,” Dean grunts, and Castiel shakes his head against his chest.

“I’m only a tease if I don’t intend to follow through,” he deflects.

Dean snorts. “You’re a tease, Cas. We’re in a fucking hospital, you can’t follow through.”

But Castiel just shrugs, the motion awkward and his shoulder jamming Dean’s ribs thanks to the position he’s in. “The nurses like me, you know. And they want you to be happy. I’ve been given strict instructions not to tire you out, but you always did get off on me doing all the work anyway.” He says those things so calmly, so plainly, as if he didn’t just offer to suck Dean off in his hospital bed like he’s not currently the grossest, most unattractive version of himself even _he’s_ ever laid eyes on and Dean’s brain short-circuits a little at the thought. Fortunately, Cas doesn’t seem to expect him to reply, looking up and meeting his wide-eyed, shocked stare with a playful smile. “Perhaps tomorrow. You need your rest. Shall we?”

And then he’s pressing play and settling into Dean’s chest like the entire conversation never happened. Dean blinks at the sudden change in tempo, willing his body to cool off and chill out and stop acting like a teenage boy looking down the barrel of his first time. So sue him, cancer or no cancer he might as well be a damn teenager after waiting a decade to have Cas back and for both of them to be happy together. In retrospect, he can’t even be upset that he’s stuck in this hospital bed right now since his cancer is what ultimately brought them back together. Not that he’ll ever be _grateful_ for his illness, of course, but he’d be lying if he said he thought he’d have the life he has right now without it.

Having zoned out for a minute, Dean tunes back in to what’s playing on the laptop only when Castiel pokes a finger into his ribs, but he’s brought up short when he realizes what exactly it is he’s looking at. There on the screen is the old home movie his in-laws took of him and Jack playing in the waves on Jack’s fifth birthday. Dean’s happiest memory, the one Jack’s wet hug had sent filtering to the surface earlier and quite possibly the thing that had put him and Cas back on the road to reconciliation at all.

He thinks back on that difficult first day; of demolition and Jack’s piercing anger, of splintering wood and loneliness, of pizza and Cas’ quiet tears as he’d reflected on all they’d thrown away. His grip around Cas’ shoulders tightens reflexively, as does Cas’ own around his middle. “I love you,” he says gruffly, as his onscreen self pulls Jack close and kisses his hair, the waves jostling them back and forth across the screen. Five-year-old Jack throws his head back and laughs wildly, and Dean’s own smile, though missing a few laugh lines, is so wide it almost looks as if it could split his face. He watches his younger self toss his son into the air and catch him just as Castiel drifts into the frame, and into his arms.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I forgot about this part.”

The two of them are staring into each other’s eyes as if they’re the only two people on the planet, and Dean can’t look away. His chest feels tight and swollen at the same time, a lump rising in his throat as he watches _that_ Dean and Cas kiss like two people who have all the time in the world.

 _You don’t,_ he wants to whisper. _It’s almost over._

Jack screeches between them, shoving at both of their chests and yelling _“EWWW, GROSS!”_ at the top of his lungs. The three of them sway together in the waves for another minute before stepping apart to swing Jack between them, all smiles, the perfect picture of happiness. The camera shuts off then, and Castiel closes the laptop before turning in Dean’s arms to look up at him.

Dean takes a moment to compose himself, staring at the ceiling and willing the tears to stay at bay. _God, when did he become such an emotional disaster?_

“S’hard to watch, you know? We were so happy, but I can’t stop thinking about what came next.” He wets his lips and takes a few deep breaths. When he dares to look back down and meet Castiel’s eyes, he doesn’t find any pity or mocking in his expression, just open, endless patience.

“It’s alright to grieve our mistakes, Dean,” Castiel says. “I certainly do. But I won’t let them stop me from moving forward, from doing my best not to make those same mistakes all over again.” He pauses and lets his hand slide up Dean’s chest, up his neck and come to rest on his cheek. “I love you,” he declares firmly. “I always have, despite my failure to show it. I will never again prioritize _things_ over you. And while I love our house and I love what you, Jack, and I built together, how it brought us back to life, I’d happily live out the rest of my days with you anywhere. In a shack on the cliffs overlooking the sea, in a crappy 500 square foot apartment clear across the country, or in a box under a bridge. Not that I’m making suggestions,” he clarifies, his eyes twinkling, “but just in case you ever doubted, I want you to know.”  

Dean stares at him, willing the truth to surface in his eyes, in the lines of his face, in his earnest expression. He finds nothing to doubt and so he nods, exhaling shakily.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Me too.”

***

After another painful and boring week of being cooped up in the hospital, Dean is finally strong enough to be cleared to go home. His doctors proudly proclaim that he’ll be able to finish the remainder of his treatments as an outpatient and then he’ll have a repeat scan and bloodwork to ensure they were effective and to plan any further steps as needed. He’s assured that his current blood markers are improving and that his whole team is very confident in his ability to make a full recovery. Dean can’t help but be a bit wary, after all this would be the same team who previously gave him four months to live, but it’s not like he’s about to kick a gift horse in the mouth either, or whatever the hell that expression is.

He walks out of the hospital hand in hand with Castiel who then drives them home in the Impala. Seeing Cas in the driver’s seat of his Baby is almost as beautiful as the feeling of finally being free and not having to sort out what to do with the last days of his life.

Neither of them speaks very much during the ride, both of them busy trying to covertly steal glances and smiles at each other as if this is a second date and not a second attempt at a marriage. As the suburbs peter out and the main road branches off to the less populated one that will take them to the cliffs, Dean’s nerves start to flare. Jack had dropped by the night before to let them know that the house was ready for them to come home to and Dean’s still got a _lot_ of feelings about that. Garth had gone over and above, using his Sheriff's office connections to somehow get a real construction crew out to do several weeks worth of work in only a few days. Dean had called him up and told him it was too much, that he was perfectly happy in the garage, but Garth wouldn’t hear it. He’d insisted that it wasn’t just him, that “everyone” wanted Dean to have somewhere comfortable and safe to be discharged to and recover in.

Apparently, they’d all worked around the clock with the blessing of the neighborhood and some powerful construction lights, finishing just in time thanks to Jack’s leadership and direction. According to Jack himself, they’d even bought and moved some new furniture in to fill the space. The idea of accepting charity flat out embarrasses Dean but by the time he finds out, it’s already a done deal anyway so he gives up on trying to talk anyone out of it. The only problem now is, although he’d never say so, Dean’s secretly a little bit salty that he wasn’t able to complete the decades-overdue project himself. At the end of the day though, his pride in Jack more than overshadows any negative feelings in that department. And no, that’s not what his nerves are from.

It’s just that, this house represents far more than simply being a nice place to live. It feels really “big” to be going back to a finished version, when what he’d left behind was wholly unfinished. Honestly, whatever’s bugging Dean is hard for him to firmly nail down in his own head, but he suspects it has something to do with the persistent worry that his own relationships won’t measure up to the promise of the house, that what he’s built still won’t be good enough for Cas.

Because when everything’s said and done, when his neighbors and friends have all gone home and his cancer is just a fading speck in the rearview mirror, Dean won’t have any more tricks up his sleeve. It’ll just be him, Cas, and Jack, stuck together in the house they built, trying to make a go of it. Trying to build a _life_ together, without the backdrop and distraction of drama and angst and actual construction. They’ll fight and they’ll disagree and things won’t be perfect and Dean wonders if he’ll be enough when that day comes. Enough for Cas to not only be happy but for him to _want_ to stay. He thinks back on Castiel’s reassurances to him in the hospital and does his best to believe them. Dean’s so completely wrapped up in his worries that he almost doesn’t realize they’re coming down his street. Castiel has to nudge his thigh to get his attention, tilting his chin when he does in the direction of the house so that Dean looks.

Dean’s always known what his house would look like once completed; he’s had the plans and the images of the finished product etched firmly in his mind for over ten years now. But somehow, he’s still wholly unprepared for what it’s like to see it in person, standing proudly where his father’s house once stood. Unconsciously, he reaches for Castiel’s hand only to find it already seeking him out.

“Cas,” he whispers, his voice choked.

“I know,” Castiel replies with an affectionate squeeze. “I know.”

The reddish-brown beams of the wooden frame are highlighted stunningly by the late afternoon sun, the light reflecting and bouncing off of the many large panes of glass that make up significant portions of all sides of the house. Most of the rooms have floor to ceiling windows and the entire wall that faces the sea is glass. The concept should help the inside flow seamlessly into the outside, should create the illusion that the interior is bigger and brighter than it is. It’s so much the opposite of what used to be here even from the outside, that just laying eyes on it wipes all of Dean’s fears away, at least for the time being. Soft glowing lantern lights frame the front door and the house is lit from the inside making it look warm and welcoming.

As Castiel brings the car to a smooth stop in the drive, Dean unbuckles and exits, gravitating towards his new home like a moth to a flame. He passes through the wrought iron fence that’s been installed, noting in surprise that it runs all the way around his property now. _Probably safer,_ he admits, though he grumbles internally about how this will affect his morning pee. At least now he’s got an awesome bathroom to pee in, if he’s going to be _forced_ to do it inside from now on. He takes a moment to stand in his yard and stare out over the Pacific, a sight that at times he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. It really is his favorite view, and the knowledge that Castiel is _here_ with him to enjoy it, combined with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below, has Dean hard-pressed to imagine how this moment could get any better. _And speaking of…_ Cas’ warm hand wraps around his bicep, tugging him gently but insistently to turn around, which he does with a smile.

“Hey, sunshine,” he quips, leaning in to steal a kiss as if they’d been separated for far longer than just the last few moments.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel humors him, and for some reason, that really pleases Dean. He watches as Cas draws a folded envelope from his pocket and holds it out in offering. “Jack asked me to give you this before we went inside.”

Dean tears it open and finds a note in Jack’s handwriting, short and sweet.

 

_Claire’s mom said I can stay over tonight so you guys can have some alone time._

_Text if you need anything. Don’t forget to show Dad the garage._

_See? I do listen to you._

 

Furrowing his brow, Dean ponders what the message could mean. He wracks his brain for a conversation he’s had with Jack regarding the garage but comes up blank. “C’mon,” he says instead of dwelling on it, grabbing Castiel’s hand and dragging him across the lawn to his old short-term home. He raises his eyebrows and opens the side door, motioning for Castiel to go through first. When he follows behind, he finds it’s not just Cas whose jaw drops to the floor.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs as he looks around in awe.

The garage has been completely gutted, its saggy walls reinforced and repaired with clean drywall painted bright white and covered with copious amounts of matching shelving. Decorating the empty space above the shelving from end to end are Castiel’s paintings, presumably relocated from Meg’s house. Filling the shelves and tables are all sorts of paints, brushes, blank canvases, and tools. The old sink is still there, accompanied by a drying rack on the counter next to it as well as an array of jars for mixing and cleaning brushes. There are even two easels set up at the far end of the garage where the infamous toilet used to be, and behind them, the back wall has been cut away completely and replaced with a giant pane of thick glass. The result is a panoramic view of the cliffs and the white-capped Pacific beyond.

Jack had also made the decision to leave the car door for the garage in place which Dean thinks is genius, seeing as how Castiel can both raise it up and enjoy essentially being outside or keep it closed in the case of bad weather so he stays cozy and dry. Cas himself has tears running unchecked down his face as he wanders around touching everything in awe, and Dean’s heart swells at seeing him emotional from _joy_ and not pain for once. Dean watches as he drifts over to one of the easels and finds an envelope stuffed under the clip. He opens it with a lot more care than Dean had done his own, and then wordlessly hands it over, shuffling up to Dean’s side and dropping his head onto his shoulder where he continues to sniffle. The envelope has Cas’ name on it, and its note is even more brief.

 

_Thank Dad, it was his idea. You’re all he talks about. It’s annoying._

 

A watery laugh escapes from Dean’s throat as he finally recalls the night where he’d rambled on about the things he wanted to make sure he made space for in the new house. He’d been absolutely sure that Jack was asleep, or at least tuning him out via the music blaring in his ears, but apparently, he was wrong. He turns to wrap his arms around Castiel and pull him in tight. “That little shit,” he mutters into Cas’ hair, but he’s smiling, and he’s _happy._ So fucking happy.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

Dean shakes his head. “Yea, Cas,” he replies, not bothering to argue about deserved credit. “Anything for you.”

***

They split off almost immediately once inside. Castiel is like a kindergartener on his first day, wandering around in a haze of awe and curiosity, touching everything and opening every last door, cabinet, and drawer he comes across just to peer inside. The house is open plan, basically just a big square with two bedrooms and a bathroom in the rear, with only a floating wall for load-bearing purposes in the center and a stairwell to the second floor attached to it to divide the main space. Since he doesn’t actually have to move around to see everything, at first Dean simply leans against one of the exterior walls and watches Cas putter, pleased as hell at how comfortable and happy he seems in the space. Of course, a lot of the storage areas he’s examining are empty, Dean never having amassed a significant number of possessions, but Castiel does exclaim that a lot of the things he cared about taking from Meg’s house already seem to be there.

Dean leaves him to bang around the kitchen to his heart’s content, ambling his tired body into the living area where he stops for several minutes to simply stand and admire the view again, this time from the other side of the glass. Eventually, he turns and sinks heavily onto the brand new sectional that’s spanning a good part of the designated “living room”, letting his eyes come to rest on the oversized big screen TV that either was watered and fed extremely well in his absence or is brand spanking new. He’s still staring at it suspiciously when the couch shifts and Castiel flops down next to him to pull his legs up and drop his head onto Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s a lot,” he says, yawning loudly.

“Good lot or bad lot?”

Castiel reaches over and squeezes his wrist. “ _Very_ good, Dean.”

“This Jack’s doing?” Dean nods his chin towards the TV.

“Hmm? Oh, um, I believe that was a gift from Jesse and Cesar. It would appear that they owned two and were not using one. At least, that is the story I was given.” Castiel’s stroking idly up and down his thigh now, and despite the heaviness behind his eyes, the promise there is tempting.

But Dean’s still distracted by one thing. “Cas, I know my life insurance policy was substantial, but how are we affording all this new _stuff?_ Being real for a sec, I was kind of expecting to come home and sleep on a mattress on the floor.”

Castiel’s head tilts to look up at Dean, and his face scrunches in confusion. “Why would you be sleeping on a mattress on the floor, Dean? Even in the garage you had a perfectly functional bed frame.”

Waving him off, Dean mutters, “It’s just like, an expression or whatever. Not the point.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Castiel’s pushing at his chest for leverage to help him sit up, far enough away now that Dean misses his warmth. He clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap, and now Dean’s eyeing _him_ suspiciously. He looks up somewhat guiltily before speaking.

“I have some savings, Dean, and I wanted to… that is to say, I don’t want to be a kept man, but I didn’t want to presume either. The hospital wasn’t exactly the right time for this conversation, and so I…”

“You presumed,” Dean fills in, his tone even.  

When Castiel’s face lifts and his eyes meet Dean’s own, they’re mournful, regretful. “I apologize, Dean. Please consider what is here a gift, and I can… I don’t need to stay, I’ll just…” He moves to stand and would probably be halfway across the room already if Dean’s reflexes weren’t as good as they are, somehow managing to reach out and grab his wrist before he can get more than a step away.

“Slow down there, spanky,” Dean admonishes, pulling him back down onto his backside. “The hell gave you the idea that I wouldn’t want you here?” Castiel opens his mouth to answer but Dean beats him to it. “You know, I thought we covered this in the hospital, but I suppose that was a little more one-sided than it should have been. You told me you wanted to stay, but I never really told _you_ that I wanted you to. I told you love wasn’t enough and then I didn’t…” He shakes his head. “Cas, I’m bad at this. And I gotta be honest, I’ve still been on the edge of my seat waiting for the moment that you decide this was all a huge mistake and you don’t really want to be stuck here with me. So this? This thing you did? The furniture, _you_.” Dean hesitates for a moment, studying Castiel’s bowed head. He takes in the curve of his ear, the slight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck where it’s getting long, his parted pink lips with another apology waiting just behind them. He’s so _done_ with the way they keep hurting each other, however accidental.

“It means everything,” he finally finishes, and Castiel’s eyes dart up, filled with hope instead of sadness this time.

“Are you sure?” His voice is low and rough, pinning him to his seat and Dean can’t do anything but nod his head in affirmation. Castiel leans in to kiss him hard, his hand cupping Dean’s jaw firmly. “Thank God,” he whispers into his mouth. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d let me go.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if you’d gone,” Dean admits. “We have to stop this,” he adds after a moment of staring into Castiel’s eyes. “The… the doubting, the fear, the waiting for the other shoe to drop. If we both say we’re in, then we’re in. Yea? You capisce?”

“I capisce,” Castiel replies seriously, before standing and pulling Dean to his own feet. “Come and see our bedroom. There’s a brand new mattress we need to break in. It’s memory foam, just like you’ve always wanted.”

“Cas, man. Much as I love breaking things in with you, and breaking things in general, I’m not sure I’ve got the—”

“A nap, Dean. We’re going to break it in with a nap.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, lead the way.”

***

The giant picture window in the master bedroom faces the same direction as the living room below; out over the water, in the same direction as the sun sets. Oddly, the change in the light is what wakes Dean, since they opted to fall asleep with the curtains open to look out over the scenery. When his eyes crack open, the first thing he sees is Cas in that orange underwear he likes so much, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the window, his tanned skin lit with dusky pinks and oranges, a mirror of the sky behind him.

“Hey,” he croaks, pushing to his elbows as Castiel turns around to smile at him. “You been waiting long?”

Castiel makes his way to Dean’s side of the bed, sitting on the edge and picking up the glass of water that’s materialized on the bedside table, holding it to Dean’s lips and urging him gently to take a sip. “Not very,” he replies, and Dean notices his smile looks tense as he complies with the request to drink. He wipes his mouth and stretches after he swallows, but Castiel still doesn’t brighten up.

“Sweetheart, listen. That was the best couple hours of sleep I’ve had in weeks, I have to think it was the same for you, considering how often you passed out upright in a chair. So either look happy or fill me in on what’s bringing you down so I can fix it, ‘cause we got plenty more “breaking in” to do with this mattress, yea?”

That gets Castiel to laugh, and he shakes his head dismissively when he’s done. “It’s just, with everything that was said earlier—”

“I thought we agreed not to do this anymore,” Dean grunts, and Castiel shakes his head again.

“It’s not that. I’m not second guessing, I promise. I was just wondering…” He sighs and looks towards the window before turning back to Dean and taking his hands. “I want you to know, Dean, I want you to hear it from me because I think you deserve it, after everything I’ve put you through. I’m really not here for the house.”

“Kay,” Dean says slowly. “Didn’t we already deja this vu?”

“No. I mean, yes, in a way.” Castiel sighs and removes his hands, dropping them into his lap, frustrated. “I know that I told you, but we weren’t… _here._ And now we are, and I just worried that you thought…” He trails off helplessly.

Dean stares at him for a long moment before standing up and grabbing Castiel’s hand. “Come on,” he says, tugging him behind as he races down the steps and out the front door, both of them still clad only in boxer briefs, some more colorful than others.

“Dean, my shoes! My _pants!_ ”

“Leave ‘em,” Dean replies, not stopping or bothering to look back. He makes his way through the door of the new iron gate and leads Cas around it to the section of the cliffs between his and Lisa’s house that drop into deep water at high tide. The sun is still sinking into the horizon, casting a muted glow over the water as it disappears. Plenty of time. Dean peeks over the edge, just to be sure, and then turns to Castiel. “You ready?”

Castiel’s eyes go wide and he backs up quickly, pulling his hand free from Dean’s. “Oh, oh no. Dean, no. I never… I _can’t.”_ Dean just smiles and stalks after him like a predator as he moves away, grabbing his hands when he gets close enough.

“You _can,”_ he insists. “Jack did. C’mon Cas. Jump with me. _Jump with me._ Leave all this shit behind.”

“ _Jack_ has his nipple pierced. You know, on second thought, our conversation earlier was more than adequate. This is really unnecessary, Dean.”

Dean leans in to kiss the soft skin just underneath Castiel’s jaw. “I think it’s _very_ necessary,” he murmurs into Castiel’s neck. “Words aren’t working for us, time to make a real change.” When he pulls back this time, Castiel still looks positively terrified, what with his eyes wide and his chest heaving, but he also looks determined. Shakily, he nods his head.

“Yea?” Dean brightens immediately.

“Yes,” Castiel affirms. “Quickly though, before I lose my nerve.”

Dean laughs and gives him the same rundown he’d given Jack once upon a time and then they’re facing the sea, hands laced firmly between them. Dean counts out loud, and on _“three!”_ they bolt for the edge of the cliffs, pushing off hard and free-falling through the warm, end-of-summer air to the turbulent waves below. He hears Castiel hollering as they drop, feels the impact of his body plunging into the cool water beside his own, and all the while their hands stay firmly clasped between them. The current pulls them out and away from the cliffs, the importance of not drowning eventually necessitating the separation of their hands, but they stay close. They burst through the surface of the sea gasping and splashing and Castiel’s whooping so loudly Dean’s worried his answering smile is going to stretch so wide it’ll break and fall off his face.

Castiel kisses him as they tread water, awkward and messy, the waves doing their best to sweep them away from each other but he _laughs,_ and his eyes are shining. They swim for shore side by side, tangling back up in each other as soon as they’re able to touch sand beneath their toes.

“That was incredible,” Castiel gushes. He turns his head to the sky, closing his eyes and reaching his arms up and out of the water as if trying to recapture the memory. “It was like flying… peaceful and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Dean, how have I not done this before?” Dean doesn’t answer, just grins like an idiot and lets him continue to rave. All of a sudden his head snaps back up and he fixes Dean with a wide-eyed look as he demands to know,  “When can we do it again?”

That gets a laugh. “Every day, sunshine, until we’re too old to climb back up the cliffs, if that’s what you want.”

Castiel nods vigorously. “I do,” he replies.

Dean slips arms around his waist under the water and pulls Castiel in, letting the waves rock them gently together until they’re only inches apart. He finds Castiel’s hand and twines their fingers back together as they were when they jumped. “I do too,” he says softly.

Castiel surges forward and kisses him so hard he pushes them both under the water.

***

They don’t quite make it back to christen the new mattress. In fact, they barely make it through their ascent up the side of the cliffs, succumbing to several extremely unsafe make-out sessions on the steep, sand-covered slope that offers the quickest route to the top short of involving climbing gear. After a couple of close calls, they finally shift their focus away from grabbing at each other and into making it the rest of the way up and back inside unharmed. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen before Dean loses his footing and almost takes a header back down the slope thanks to Castiel’s hand up his shorts. Once they do make it to the top Dean gets revenge by pantsing him and running away giggling like a maniac. He jumps the fence and Cas follows (after fixing his shorts), tearing through the backyard as they laugh and pull at each other’s underwear like teenagers, all the while making their way towards Dean’s infamous outside shower. Dean’s banking on the fact that his newfound neighbor-friends all knew he was coming home tonight and won’t be looking out their windows to see what he’s up to, but honestly, it’s hard to care. He doubts Garth will have the heart to cite him even if he does get a call, and anyway, Dean figures the fine will be worth it.

 _Definitely worth it,_ he thinks, as a naked and sandy Castiel presses his muscular body against him and manhandles them both under the hot spray. _And thank fuck for working hot water._ Castiel’s already grinding against his hip, being careful to avoid the sore and reddened radiation spot above it, and Dean drops a hand to his ass to keep him close as the other goes to the back of his head. He lets his fingers thread into Cas’ dark locks, tugging gently at the roots as he tips his head to the side. Dean mouths along the sinewy line of his neck, tasting the ocean on his skin and sucking bruises into it anyway. Castiel’s own hands are busy, already soaped up and working their way across the skin of his back, dancing down his sides. Dean gladly relinquishes control like this, the sand and salt washing down the drain alongside two decades of bad memories.

In the hospital, Dean hated relying on Castiel to help him shower. It felt horrifically embarrassing, emasculating even. Unquestionably, a lot of that had to do with his weakened state, his inability to do for himself even when he wanted to, and Castiel being fully dressed, the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt and the cuffs of his slacks darkening as they became soaked in water while Dean sat burning with humiliation on the plastic shower chair. Not that any of that was Castiel’s fault, nor is Dean ungrateful for his tireless patience and his endless tolerance for being the undeserved recipient of his own frustration and misdirected anger. Of course, Dean _could_ have opted to have a nurse help him instead, but somehow that had seemed worse. It felt like giving up, as if kicking Cas out would have been admitting that he actually _was_ weak, so weak that he couldn’t accept affection and care from the man who loves him enough to offer it.

But _this._ This is nothing like those chilly, infuriating showers with cold, hard surfaces and one of them suffering from both physical and emotional pain, the other desperate to shoulder the brunt of it and unable to.

Castiel is warm and his skin is soft under Dean’s hands, his cut chest and abdomen pushing and sliding against Dean’s own with ease, thanks to the suds. With their bodies side by side like this, it’s hard not to take notice of how much weight Dean has lost. His previously healthy and bulging arm muscles are much thinner now, his waist would make a runway model jealous, and his bowed legs are the skinniest they’ve ever been. Next to Cas, he feels like a bunch of toothpicks strung together. And surprisingly, Dean finds that fucking _hot._ Cas has only gotten more buff thanks to his time working on the house, and now that he’s naked Dean can see he’s practically a beefcake. The bulge of his arms, the thickness of his thighs, the toned muscles across his back flexing under his hands _—_ it’s _all_ working for Dean, and Castiel smirks as he seems to realize it. It’s strange, because the last time he was helpless under Castiel’s hands, it felt awful and wrong, but _this…_ This is the complete opposite. This feels like exactly what he needs.

He grips Castiel’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and looks him in the eye. “Don’t treat me like I’m breakable, alright?”

A slow, devious smile spreads across Castiel’s face and he responds by flipping Dean around and pressing him up against the only wall the shower has. His muscled body follows close behind, fitting himself along Dean’s back from shoulders to thighs, his cock sliding between Dean’s cheeks. Dean lets out a pitiful little moan as his own cock chafes against the wall, but he’s not there long enough to complain. Castiel’s hands are tugging at his hips and pushing at his thighs, asking him to push his ass out and spread his legs, so he does. Cas’ hands wash him gently as the hot water pounds on his back, and he drops his head to rest on top of where his arms are crossed against the wall. Dean’s just starting to really relax when he feels Cas’ dominating presence at his back disappear and his big, warm hands parting his cheeks. He barely has time to tense before the first swipe of Cas’ tongue teases at his hole, making him shudder and moan.

“Holy fuck, Cas,” he breathes, and Castiel hums in acknowledgment, creating vibrations that send sparks of pleasure rushing down to Dean’s toes. “I forgot... _you’re so_... damn good at this,” he pants, dropping his arms in favor of pressing his hands and forehead against the wall for balance.

Castiel nips and licks and spears Dean on his tongue until he’s a writhing mess that can barely stand. When his arms start to slip and his legs won’t stop shaking, Castiel finally gets to his feet and mercifully pulls him into his arms. He turns the water off and picks Dean up with ease in a bridal carry, Dean’s arms going around his neck like they’ve done it a hundred times ( _they definitely haven’t_ ).

“This should be really fucking embarrassing,” Dean grunts, tucking his head into Castiel’s neck.

“Is it?” Castiel’s amused rumble indicates that he already knows the answer, but Dean shakes his head anyway and tightens his grip.

“It’s fucking hot, Cas. Who knew I had a thing for getting shoved around by big muscle dudes?” The smirk on Castiel’s face brings a blush to Dean’s own.

“I did,” he replies simply, and before Dean can dig into that, they’re setting off across the lawn, stark naked and still dripping wet. It’s dark enough now that they probably aren’t in danger of scarring anyone, but Dean’s still relieved when they’re finally inside and have the door locked safely behind them. To Dean (and his dick)’s secret delight, Castiel doesn’t put him down and instead carries him all the way up to their bedroom. He towels them both off quickly and once again, Dean marvels at how _sexy_ it is to be taken care of like this, unable to keep from leaning in to kiss Castiel sweet and soft. In response, Castiel drops the towel and lets his hands come up to frame Dean’s face. He walks him backward and tips him onto the bed, sliding an arm underneath his torso to scoop and drag him up the mattress where he wants him.

There’s an unexpected break in the action when they realize their bedside table is sans lube, but Castiel comes through in the clutch, producing a small bottle from his travel toiletry bag.

“Really Cas?” Dean raises his eyebrows in a questioning stare from his position on the bed, and Castiel shrugs.

“Don’t judge me. You were sick, and I had to blow off steam somehow.”

After doing a double-take at his reply, Dean clarifies. “Wait, are you saying you jerked off in my _hospital_ shower _,_ Cas?!” Castiel just looks at him and does his best to swallow a smirk. “Damn. Can’t decide whether to be offended or impressed.”

“It’s a biological need, Dean, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh yea baby, talk dirty to me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and shuffles up the bed on his knees, lube in hand. “Flip,” he commands, and the hair on Dean’s arms stands up at his suddenly dominant tone. This is the Cas that’s no picnic to fight with, but a hell of a good time to make up with, and he’s missed him terribly.

He turns over eagerly and without complaint, dropping his head onto folded arms that rest on the bed but staying on his knees, legs spread. He can hear an approving moan slip past Castiel’s lips, presumably as he watches Dean choose his position, and it’s soon followed by the tips of soft fingers sliding reverently down Dean’s back. He shivers and not from cold, struggling to keep his body from wiggling in anticipation as Castiel’s mouth replaces his hand and kisses gently down the bones of his spine. A needy noise escapes from the back of his throat and his muscles tense as he does his best to keep still. He should be embarrassed at how much he wants Castiel to _grab_ him, cover him, fucking _own him,_ but he _needs_ this. Words are great but Dean speaks with his body, always has, and Castiel knows it.

“Shh,” he murmurs, clearly sensing the shift in Dean’s mood and responding in kind. Castiel soothes both hands down his nervous thighs as he drapes himself heavily over his back.

“Let me take care of you.”

Once again, Dean’s struck dumb by how effortlessly Cas is subverting everything he knows Dean hated about his time in the hospital, and he’s _so_ fucking grateful, so desperate for it, he could almost cry. Instead, he twists his neck as far as it’ll go, reaching back with his hand to grab hold of Castiel’s head and guide him forward until their mouths meet and he can pour all of his feelings into a messy kiss. Castiel wraps an arm around his middle and they surge together, tongues tangling and Cas only moving away to kiss at the corner of his mouth, then across his jaw, down his neck and back over his shoulder. Dean sighs, dropping his head back down to the pillows and giving himself over completely.

Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t tease, catching on without having to be told that Dean’s _more than_ ready for the main event and probably wouldn’t survive another round of foreplay. Fingers push inside him gently, lovingly, as Cas’ free hand smoothes pathways up and down his back. The heel of the hand that’s caressing him presses and drags down over Dean’s muscles and between both sensations inside and out, he’s practically drooling on his pillow.

One thing is for sure; time and distance haven’t touched Cas’ memory of what Dean likes. As he lays there, reveling in the feeling of being wanted like this, Cas kisses him frequently, pressing soft lips to his spine, his wineglass dimples, his ass cheeks and the edge of his hole. Some of it makes him sigh, or moan, or shiver, but overall Dean is just along for the ride, submitting and letting Castiel touch him and stretch him, trusting him wholly and fully with his body, with his pleasure, with everything he has left to give.

 _It should be terrifying,_ Dean realizes. It should be the scariest thing in the world to be vulnerable and open like this, but it’s not. _It’s not. Not with Cas in control._

Of course, Dean’s known for what seems like his entire life that he loves Castiel beyond all measure, but for some reason his current thoughts about _exactly how much_ and the physical sensations he’s experiencing combine to overwhelm him, pulling him under like the current beneath the waves.

And naturally, that happens just as Castiel finally pushes inside, rocking gently against him until he’s fully seated, Dean’s eyes full of tears for all the right reasons. Castiel tugs his hands out from under his head and covers them with his own, draping himself across Dean’s back again and intertwining their fingers against the sheets. Dean’s own cock is rock hard and leaking underneath him where it drags against the sheets, but he hardly even notices, so focused on Castiel in and around him that he can hardly breathe.

“Cas,” he gasps, “Cas, please,” and though he has no idea what he’s asking for, Castiel says he understands.

He murmurs sweet nonsense and shushes Dean again when he moans, reassuring lips moving softly along the shell of his ear, kissing the sensitive spot underneath and making their way across the back of his neck. Cas pulls a hand free from where it’s tangled in Dean’s to drag it gently up and down his side, letting it come to rest on his hip as he moves carefully inside.

It’s been… a _long_ time since Dean’s been fucked, and between that and the rush of unexpected emotions, it takes a solid few minutes before the good sensations start to outweigh the discomfort. But Castiel is patient and gentle, and it’s not too long before he’s hitting Dean’s prostate and making him remember why he’s always loved being under Castiel, always preferred it, in fact. Add to that now Castiel feels like he’s twice his size and can move him around like he’s a rag doll, and Dean’s sliding back into his previous state of intense arousal without the added distress of feeling like he’s on the edge of a breakdown. He breathes a sigh of relief and focuses on the feeling of Castiel’s cock fucking into him, his thick thighs slapping against his own, his big, warm hand resting in the middle of his back.

Now that he’s really in the moment, he decides he’d do just about anything to get that hand on his cock. It doesn’t hurt that this scene is easily all of his secret fantasies from the last ten years combined bursting to life, but Cas doesn’t need a bigger sex ego than he already has.

“Come on Cas, baby, ‘m ready now, give it to me,” he murmurs, knowing Castiel can see the difference in the set of his shoulders, the lack of tension in his legs. He’s pliant and relaxed, leaning back into his thrusts and moaning his approval happily instead of being desperate and overwhelmed.

Castiel leans forward again, wrapping a hand around the side of his face and chin and tilting it to the side so he can whisper in his ear.

_“So good, Dean. You’re so good.”_

He’ll deny it until his dying day but Dean _whines._ He couldn’t help it if he tried; Castiel’s growling tone, his hand wrapped around what feels like half of his head, Dean has a brief moment where he wonders if he _did_ die and go to Heaven because there’s no way that place is better than this. _No fucking way._  

And then Castiel’s moving, wrapping strong arms around his chest and stomach to drag him up and back, still impaled on his cock. He sits back on his heels and settles Dean in his lap, spreading his thighs and toying with his balls, making Dean whimper and grind his hips in a circle just to get some kind of real stimulus.

Castiel ignores Dean’s body’s demands, placing a firm hand in the middle of his chest to hold him tight and keep him steady as his hips move shallowly against his ass. Dean tips his chin back and brushes lips against Cas’ stubble before nudging their mouths together, teeth nipping, tongues tangling and breath coming up short. Cas’ wandering hand _finally_ finds his cock and begins to stroke rhythmically as Dean alternately pushes back and grinds to meet his thrusts.

He knows he’s making all sorts of noises now, most of them extremely unmanly and the rest a bunch of half-formed words, but Cas is whispering all manner of dirty praise in his ear and he’s just not in control anymore, nor does he want to be.

At some point Castiel loses the careful control he’s so known for and shoves Dean forward again, pressing him into the sheets and pounding into him with abandon, just the way Dean likes, the way he’d hoped for, the way he _knows_ on some level he’s begging for out loud now but all he can hear in his head is _CasCasCasCasCasCas._ His hand shoots out to slap the headboard as one of Cas’ thrusts punches his prostate in a particularly dizzying way, and he yells, dropping his hands to grab at the sheets and shove his ass back for more.

Their skin is sweat-slick where it slides together, Dean’s back to Cas’ chest, and he’s on fire where he’s pressed between Cas and the damp sheets. The pressure building in his stomach curls wildly through his veins and leaves him throbbing all over and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

Cas’ teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder and Dean wails as the hand on his cock picks up the pace.

Cas’ hand tightens, and twists _just_ right—

Dean tenses up and spills hard all over him with an accompanying cry of relief, panting and collapsing on the bed as he comes down and his limbs refuse to keep him upright any longer.

Peeling himself off of Dean’s back, Castiel straightens and the air in the room abruptly drifts arctic-cold across his superheated skin. Cas winds commanding fingers into Dean’s hair and tugs, fucking him hard and fast through the end of his orgasm, Dean gasping and moaning into the sheets because it’s _too fucking much, too much,_ but he wants it all the same _._ His vision whites out just as Castiel groans loudly, his hips connecting with Dean’s ass hard and long, heat flooding Dean’s insides in a way that if he was twenty years younger and had _anything_ left in him at all would have had him raring to go again.

As it is, he can’t bring himself to do much more than lie there, dry-mouthed and blinking helplessly as he wills the room back into focus.

Dean’s _spinning._

With an exhausted sigh, Castiel pulls out and collapses to the bed, bodily manhandling Dean over until he’s in a position where he can drag him up and into his chest. His voice is sex rough and deeper than usual, and Dean bites at his neck without thinking.

“Are you alright?”

Dean pauses for a moment to take stock of his body and mind before answering, but he finds that he definitely is. He’s happy and sated, sore in a _very_ good way, but more than that he discovers that their moment on the cliffs and in the ocean ( _and during that incredible round of sex,)_ seems to have carried forward. He’s _not_ scared anymore, he’s not caught up wondering when this bubble will burst, when the other shoe will drop. Their relationship is sound, built from the ground up on the better part of two decades of pain and loss, of love that’s withstood the test of time and the strain of miscommunication. They’re stronger, not weaker, for having come out the other side of all that willing to work together, to help each other stand tall instead of letting it all tear them apart. The house they’re in represents everything Dean wishes he’d been strong enough to build years ago, and it’s a physical, _daily_ reminder to push forward instead of allowing themselves to be pulled back into the past.

 _Good,_ beautiful things come from moving forward, from tearing down walls and building yourself back up again into something better, something braver, something steady.

“Yea,” he replies eventually to Cas’ question. “I really am.” Cas looks down at him quizzically but doesn’t push, just lets Dean settle into his chest and strokes his hair.

Dean’s not afraid anymore. He feels stronger than he’s ever been. He’s going to live.

He’s going to _live_.

***

 

_"I always thought of myself as a house._

_I was always what I lived in._

_It didn't need to be big,_

_it didn't even need to be beautiful,_

_it just needed to be mine._

_I became what I was meant to be, I built myself a life,_

_With every crash of every wave, I hear something now,_

_I never listened before._

_I'm on the edge of a cliff, listening._

_Almost finished._

_If you were a house, this is where you would want to be built:_

_On rock, facing the sea... Listening._

_Listening."_

 

_[ _[-Life As a House]_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aELdXtnjYvA) _

 

_[](https://ibb.co/T0BDfW7)[](https://ibb.co/JtzV9LF) [](https://ibb.co/q7cF8h4) [](https://ibb.co/wyR7Hvm) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave me a comment or check out my other stuff if you enjoyed this story (or if you bawled your eyes out and hate my guts)!! <3
> 
> Don't forget Foxy's [Art Masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019536)!!
> 
> Come talk to me on
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) or [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)
> 
> :)


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